


Sacrifice

by Feynite, Little_Lotte



Series: Sharp and Shiny [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Inquisition, Looking Glass, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their heart is dead, they know it, they have buried her so thoroughly that not even the most audacious spirits would dare to wear her face. And yet this face is not in the Dreaming. It is being worn by a woman in a world less mutable, and they do not understand. What are they seeing? </p>
<p>They venture closer. Closer and closer, until they can feel the Veil straining around them, and the woman tenses. The hairs on the back of her neck standing up. They are tired, and perhaps not thinking clearly, as the question sneaks from them. A simple word, that feels as though it is beating a tempo through the fabric of their being.</p>
<p>...vhenan...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a one shot "what if" type scenario, but it seems to have sort of exploded into its own spin-off AU. The world set up is heavily related to our other posted RP, Bite Me, and I would strongly suggest at least reading chapter 7 of that work before trying to get into this, otherwise it is probably going to be fairly confusing. Rating subject to change depending on where this takes us.

Aili: *They come for them one night after the evening meal, cornering her and a handful of other lower ranking followers in one of the corridors just outside the dining hall. Most of the ranking hunters are out on another hunt or with their lady, and the population of the palace is sparse. There is no one to call for. No one to intercede.*

*She is not surprised. She finds that there is very little that would surprise her at this point, and people of lower standing have been disappearing silently from Andruil’s halls for months now. The ostensible reason is that since Andruil has largely been dividing her time between campsites along Falon’Din’s territory and her Arlathan estate, the servants have been reallocated to other places where their skills are more immediately required, but everyone knows the truth. They are being sacrificed to the Evanuris' ever-growing need for power. Quietly, subtly, and only a few at a time to avoid widespread panic and uprising.*

*Most of the others are resigned. One of the younger ones starts crying. Four well-armed mid-ranking hunters up against six untrained, frightened servants is an easy and unfortunate equation. Under normal circumstances.* 

*She will not go quietly.*

*A flick of her wrist, and a small blade is in her hand, quick as lightning. The hunters had been prepared for magic, perhaps a frantic dash for freedom, but not this. Not a usually obliging halla tender who has spent years training with a blade under the guidance of one of Andruil's most talented hunters, who is used to fighting in the cramped narrow alleys of Arlathan's lower city, who has been nursing a steadily growing resentment for this place and almost everyone in it. There is a righteous sort of fury crackling in the air around her as she divests one hunter of their weapon, and nearly blinds a second.*

*The hall erupts in a chaos of fear and confusion and anger. The other servants try to run, and are consequently cut down without mercy or hesitation as the three uninjured hunters close in on Aili, crowding her against a wall as she glares at them, stolen blade and little dagger both still in hand, daring any of them to come at her.*

*When the first one tries however, a tall wiry blond wielding a spear, she raises a barrier with practiced ease, turning the tip of the weapon harmlessly away with her stolen blade and swinging back around with her little knife to carve a long deep gash down the side of his face and neck. He stumbles back with a curse, and she snarls in triumph, but then the other two rush her at once, one with magic, then other with a sword, and she is not certain where to focus the brunt of her barrier's strength. It shatters, like the sound of breaking glass, even as she tries to push the incoming blade away and she feels the other hunter press close and sink a dagger deep into her gut.*

*She lets out a wet choking gasp. Her knees buckle. Pain bursts sharply in the air around her, but still she struggles against them. Against fate. Against death. They have taken so much, denied her so much, but she will not give them this. Something rises up in her, immense and burning, pushing up and out of her and engulfing the hallway in a flood of blinding golden light. Her skin is molten. She screams as the world dissolves around her, body crumpling to join the others littering the floor.*

Uthvir: *Andruil drinks the poison from the earth. The blue, gleaming light of it slides down her throat, and they watch as it suffuses her gaze, and her skin. There is a fountain of the stuff, now. She has taken enough of it that she can all but douse herself in it, and 'hear the song'. Uthvir does not know what song. They do not wish to. They are waiting, edged, for this poison to kill her, as it surely must. Because it _is_  poison. They can smell it. Fear knows, can taste it in the air. Andruil has always been cracked, but now there is blood seeping out through her edges.*

*They are waiting for her to die, for them all to die, at this point. Leaders. But they will kill each other first, if they can, and Uthvir knows they must tread carefully if they are avoid becoming collateral damage. Dying in skirmishes. Like...*

*They shake their head, and do not think of it. Falon'Din is next upon the chopping block. Being in his lands does not suit them, but Andruil has become more covetous of them, in her increasingly disjointed state. She does not let them far past the border camp, anyway. They stand beside the pool she is in, and help her out. Careful to avoid touching the poison, as they offer her a towel by which to clean herself. She sucks in a long breath, and then snaps. And they bring her mantle to her, and her dress, and gear.*

*It strikes them when they are done. When she is gone, and it is hard enough that they nearly fall into the poisoned pool. Something clenches - fear. Visceral, but not Fear, not their own. Anger. Pain. _Aili._  They suck in a breath, and retreat, swiftly, from the tent. Heading through the camp with seeming swift and determined purpose, before the pain flares again, horribly, and they duck behind the canvas of their own tent. Someone is hurting her. Attacking her. In Andruil's lands? A servant of Ghilan'nain? No. She should be...*

*The light flares, and their heart feels fit to burst from their chest. And it is all they can do not to scream, as between one thought and the next, something snaps horrifically.*

Aili: *She wakes a few minutes later to a hallway strewn with corpses. She feels weak and woozy and sick to her stomach, but she forces herself to her feet regardless, knowing that other hunters will come to investigate the sounds of fighting soon enough, if their fellows have not gone to fetch them already. She leans heavily against the wall, blood still seeping from her side, though not as badly as she would have thought. Her head spins, but she wills herself to look at the bodies still lying on the floor. All four of her attackers are amongst them. ...Well, that ought to by her a little more time at any rate.*

*She goes to the body of one of her fellow servants, the young one who had been crying, and hauls her up, pulling her arm as far across her shoulders as she can and gripping her by the waist as she slowly begins dragging her back towards her rooms. The weight of the girl is loose and heavy and she is a good few inches taller than herself, but hopefully that will not matter.*

*Back in her own bedchamber, Aili hurriedly exchanges the unfortunate girl's clothing for her own. Her neck has been snapped, green eyes gazing blankly up at her. She presses them closed, whispering an apology even as she takes her little dagger in hand once more and makes a wound in the girl's side that mimic's her own. Then she sits on the floor, pulling her into her lap and pressing the blade into the dead servant's hand, raising it up to cut a deep gash across her throat.*

*It is difficult, to change the appearance of another. But she has been practicing changing her own, as well as shifting the color of some of the hides of slain beasts about the palace when no one is looking, and a dead body has no will to fight her magic. Her contacts among certain rebel forces quietly aligning themselves throughout the empire had told her of this probability, and, in exchange for information about Andruil's movements, had given her instructions on how to extract herself while drawing the least amount of attention. Being attacked was...something of a worst case scenario, but luck seems to be with her for the time being.*

*The girl's hair grows lighter, her skin grows darker, and as one final scrap of proof, Aili pulls a pendant from around her neck and places it on her counterpart. A simple white oval, spider fang, carved with swirls of leaves and flowers with the outline of a halla in the center. Her last gift from her lover; gone. She looks down at the girl, at the weak imitation of herself, at the blood seeping onto her floor, and she is nearly overcome with rage and grief. The Evanuris will pay for this. For this girl. For the life they have snatched away from her. For the happiness she might have found with Uthvir. With her own blood, she writes on the inside of the door.* 'My life was never yours to take. It never will be.'    

*Her magic is nearly spent, but she does her best to heal herself, at least enough to stop the flow of blood. Then she presses herself close to the wall nearest to her little window, and, aiming as close to the dead girl's face as she can, she sets the room ablaze. Panting and worn out and drained in almost every way she can be, she shifts into a small golden fox, leaps up to the window ledge, presses it open, and slips out into the night.*

Uthvir: *Survive. That is the mandate of their existence. That is all that there is left, in the end.*

*The 'resource report' from Andruil's palace confirms what they already knew to be true. Aili is dead. The 'halla tender' having been slated for blood sacrifice, along with several other low-ranking elves. Uthvir had not even realized this was going on, nor to this extent. She should have been safe. She was Ghilan'nain's, Andruil did not have the authority to spend her life; but Ghilan'nain had granted it, of course. What was one more servant to her? One more body? Andruil could likely have them all, if she asked.*

*Survive. That is the only point, now.*

*They feel burnt out, like a torch that has flared, and over spent itself, and is now only crackling embers. Fear leaps up, more and more. Because it must. Because Uthvir cannot find the will, and if they cannot find the will, then they will perish. And both of them are far too frightened of death to allow it. The campaign against Falon'Din goes as well as could be expected. They deal with fleeing 'traitors' trying to cross his borders. Trying to escape the sacrificial death he has been meting out. It is a testament to the increasing madness of the evanuris that these elves are all slain; their bodies dropped into mass graves, their blood used to fuel the fires of the battle against their former master. Uthvir kills. Over and over again, as blood stains their gauntlets, and they try not to think.*

*It gets easier, with time. To not think. Andruil glows like a beacon when Falon'Din falls, and she breaks more pieces from them in the aftermath of her victory; inflicting upon them the 'celebrations' she would not dare treat her wife to. Uthvir endures them, because that is what they do. They return to the palace in the aftermath, and not even Falon'Din's defeat feels like a reassurance. They are hollow, and Fear is still strong. Andruil may well be becoming just as bad as their old master once was. Perhaps even worse, in some ways. She takes to locking them up, and chaining them at times. Feeding them bits of her poison, no matter how ardently they attempt to decline. No matter how many ways they try and avoid it. Some gets through, and it burns, and Fear _hears_  it. A song. Whispers, sinking, eerie into the background of the world. They are angry. Uthvir can feel themselves losing more and more of their grip, but they do not have the strength to hold on.*

*They are quiet, when Andruil betrays her mother. When they cut down the flowers, and there is golden hair spilled upon the ground. There is blood. There is a necklace they have, but they cannot recall why; nor why they look at it, and then brush the golden hair back from the fallen flower's face. It hurts. It _burns._ *

I am sorry.

*They cannot handle the pain anymore, they do not think. It is too much, and it will kill them, and they must survive. So they put it away. They put it all away. The necklace, and the sight of golden, bright things. They do not like the sun, anymore. Andruil lets them stay in the moonlight instead, but that brightness hurts in its own way, too. It all does. They cleave to the shadows. Fall to the dark, in the palace, and Fear grows and grows, and drinks poison, and speaks for them. When they deign to speak at all. The palace changes. Uthvir changes.*

*There is no other way to survive.*

Aili: *She does not sleep for two days, trying to put as much distance between herself and the palace as she can, nearly killing herself from exposure in the process. It is more than a month to Arlathan without going through the Eluvian network, but she does not dare to even head in that general direction until she is sure no one is following her. Her low standing means that no one is likely to look too closely into her death, but the mystery of how everyone else in the hallway died might merit some closer investigation. It is not until the third day of her escape, when she falls exhausted to the forest floor and finally slides into the Dreaming, that she realizes it.*

*She cannot feel Uthvir.*

*She had been so focused on survival that she did not try to reach for them, so tired that she did not notice her own weakened magic. Because _all_ of her feels weak at the moment, truth be told. She tries to find it while she sleeps, that hum of connection, forged so many years ago by Glory's shard and strengthened by years of ardent devotion, and all that answers her is the faintest whisper of power. No emotions. No reply. She is not even certain it is them she is feeling and not simply the quiet echo of whatever remnants of the shard's magic lingers beneath her skin. Her lungs ache as her throat tightens, and she fights the urge to cry. It feels like something has been carved from her chest, some vital, beating thing. They are lost to her.*

*Once she finally claws her way back to civilization, she joins Fen'harel and his rebels in earnest. She is sent out to some tiny piece of nowhere in a far flung corner of Mythal's lands. They train her as a ranger, as a thief, and a spy. She learns to twist her features and change her skin and hair to suit whatever task she is called for, though she never can seem to change the color of her eyes. She learns to fight with a bow, a spear, and later on, a blade forged entirely of magical energy, golden and gleaming in her hands. If only she had had this strength earlier, maybe she could have... But it does no good to dwell on it.*

*She tells them everything she can about Andruil and her habits, about various hunters; who is paranoid, who slacks off at their post, who is easy to bribe, easy to bully. But she never says a word about her lover. About Uthvir's past or their weaknesses. Because they are coming, she is sure of it. They will join the rebellion as soon as they can, and she does not want anyone to turn on them out of prejudice. They will think that Andruil has killed her, and why would they serve her after that? She weaves whole scenarios in her head of how she will greet them when they finally find each other again. Sometimes with tears and softness, other times with laughter, with passion, with bursts of surprise and trembling joy.*

*But Uthvir does not leave their mistress.*

*She keeps an ear out, even as she is sent to gather intel in Ghilan'nain's territory and destroy as many of her laboratories as she can, but it is always the same. They are serving their lady as faithfully as ever, culling the frightened fleeing masses from Falon'Din's lands. The deadly shadow at her side. Months turn into years, Falon'Din falls, and Aili begins to wonder...begins to doubt. Did they know that Andruil was going to kill her? Did they intentionally break their bond to her? She knows they fear death above all things, was their own survival and position worth more to them than her life? She does not want to believe it, but everything she thought she knew about the world is crumbling around her.*

*Mythal dies at the hands of her kin, and what little sanity is left in Elvhenan shatters. There is no more word to be had of Uthvir, or anyone else she cares for. Fen'harel is panicked and grief-stricken and rife with a thirst for vengeance. The Evanuris _will_ fall.*

*The earth trembles when the Veil rises. There is a blinding flash of green, and a great gasping shriek in her ears as the Dreaming is pulled away from her- away from _everything_. She falls to her knees, sobbing and heaving up her last meal. She can barely feel her magic. And Arlathan... The entire city of Arlathan is gone.*

*The ages pass. She accumulates scars and false names and sadness as she watches the humans rise and overtake the remnants of her people. Their children sicken and wither and die, faster than cut flowers. Their traditions and history...their very words are lost to the shackles of time and slavery, until there is almost nothing left. Fen'Harel sleeps, but still wanders in his new and different Fade, still expecting his agents to report. *

*He wants to bring back Elvhenan.*

*She sees the flaws in this world easily enough. The brokenness of it. She is not certain that it is all that much worse than the one they destroyed, though. These people are strange and fleeting, but they still feel...they still love. They are real and deserve to exist. She does not approve of his plan with the orb, but it is not until she learns of the death of Felassan that she truly begins to doubt his intentions. And then the sky tears, and a mortal woman rises to close it. An elf, of all things. And the Dread Wolf falls. She does not think she is the only one of his agents to see it, but she seems to be the only one who recoils in horror as he refuses to alter his course. As he tells them with an almost blank expression that he has ripped the hand from the woman he loves. It is too much. He is becoming the very thing he sought to destroy, and he cannot see it. She cannot bear to aid him as he pulls the world apart again*

*She begs for the chance to search for old ruins, to seek old places of power and artifacts which might prove useful in their upcoming struggle with the former Inquisitor, and it is granted without much suspicion. As an elf who still bears vallaslin, there is not much she can do in terms of spying on human settlements. 'Dalish' elves are always suspect. She has proven herself a loyal agent time and time again; none of them think she does not mean to return.*

*She wanders aimlessly for a while, living off the land, her thoughts trending towards her days tending halla, when all she had dreamed of was a moderately comfortable life for herself and her family, and the presence of her lover at her side. Hunting, as ever, turns her mind towards her poor lost heart, and she wonders what they would make of her now, this world weary echo of her former self. If they would be proud of her for fighting, if they would be horrified at her role in Elvhenan's downfall...if they would despise her for fleeing now.*

*Then, one morning, she stumbles onto a great crumbling ruin, nearly swallowed by the forest surrounding it. She stares at it for a long moment, something about its shape prickling in the deep recesses of her memories. And then she laughs, loud and nearly aching. For something, be it the cruelness of fate or the ever-present memories of Uthvir, has led her feet back to Andruil's palace at long last.*

*She pulls her pack a bit more firmly across her shoulders, bracing herself, before walking into what remains of the entryway. There is almost nothing grand about it now. Nearly all of the pelts and mounted heads and horns of beasts have fallen to dust, and thick vines and one or two trees have managed to begin eating away at the walls. Still. Pockets of beauty remain, whatever was beautiful to find in this place to begin with. She places her hand on a faded carving of a hunter wielding a spear, running her fingers over the sharp shapes of their armor. She calls out softly to no one in particular.*

I'm home.

The Nightmare: *Fear is weak. Battling the Inquisitor, and the pathetic shadow of the Dread Wolf, and their allies, took more from it than it anticipated. The fall of the Veil is nigh, and the Dread Wolf still struggles with himself. Making decisions and then attempting to undo them, too complex in his goals for his own good. A confused snake swallowing its own tail. And over-ambitious beast, trying to close its jaws around the burning sun. The Hawke falls into its grasp, and it remembers hawks. The shape of them. Wind and wings, and what it was like to have a beating heart.*

*It thinks it is the memory, at first. The memory is what is causing it to feel something, as it retreats across the Fade, to the ruins where its true lair lives. Once a veritable wellspring of fear. Now it is quiet, but the Nightmare does not need to glut itself. It needs to recover. Licking its wounds, and reassessing its plans. Corypheus might fall. It does not care. Corypheus is a pitiable monster, but useful for sowing discord, if nothing else. The Dreaming is closer to breaking free than it ever has been before, and there will be opportunities in that. But more importantly, it will require strength to survive. The weaker spirits are already trying to flee, down into the depths. But the depths of the Dreaming that once existed no longer do. The Dread Wolf's partition has torn apart more than he ever surmised.*

*It is quiet. It is dark. The Veil is thin in the ruins of the huntress's palace. Water runs down into the deeper levels, pooling where blood was once spilt in her name. Old chains still rattle upon the walls. Claw marks in the doors. Boxes behind vaults, from when Andruil had finally taken them apart, dismembered them and bound them, but she was sloppy, by then. Fear rests in the dark, and thinks of the Dread Wolf, and remembers. So many ancient things have come back now, to claw at them. So many losses. And then they hear the voice, echoing, so quiet that they cannot tell if it is truly there. But yet, it is more real a sound than any to have graced this ruin in a long time. And even past the thin barrier of the Veil, they can hear it. They know it.*

*Fear rises up, closer to the daylight than they generally dare to go. And it sees her. But it cannot be her. Vhenan is dead. Their heart is _dead_ , they know it, they have buried her so thoroughly that not even the most audacious spirits would dare to wear her face. And yet this face is not in the Dreaming. It is being worn by a woman in a world less mutable, and they do not understand. What are they seeing? Their fascination draws them more than their caution repels, and they press closer. Whispers flowing in their wake, as many-legged minions skitter through the dark. There are only a few of them left, since their encounter. As the woman moves carefully through the ruin, the Dreaming echoes shapes of what the palace used to be. She is... remembering?*

*They venture closer. Closer and closer, until they can feel the Veil straining around them, and the woman tenses. The hairs on the back of her neck standing up. They are tired, and perhaps not thinking clearly, as the question sneaks from them. A simple word, that feels as though it is beating a tempo through the fabric of their being.*

...vhenan...?

Aili: *She whips around, fluid as water, a gleaming spirit blade forming in her hand, ready to defend herself against whatever might still be lurking in the shadows of Andruil's palace. But there is nothing behind her but rubble and gloom. For a moment she could have sworn she heard...*

*She shakes her head, and dismisses her weapon, though she keeps the hilt in hand, just in case. She supposes that if any place in this world would haunt her with the sound of Uthvir's voice, it would be this one. It sets her nerves on edge. The Veil is perilously thin here, and such places always attract spirits. The poor things, trying to reach back for a world that no longer holds them as it should. She's not sure she could take it if one of them tried to lure her into some sort of bargain while wearing her lost love's face, however.*

*She turns her attention back to the hallway she had been walking down and sighs in dejection. The route to her old rooms has completely collapsed in on itself. She supposes it was too much to hope that anything she had once treasured would have survived this long anyway, if any of her belongings had even been kept after her 'death'. Still, she thinks she would have liked to have seen it again. To touch its walls and remember the times she had been happy... To see if any of her old letters from Uthvir were still tucked into her hiding place beneath the floor. Or maybe her necklace that she'd had to leave behind...*

*She frowns, and the air around her moves strangely, like a brush of fingers across her cheek. She shudders, looking around her again, but there is still nothing to be seen.*

*Well. If she cannot reclaim anything of her own, perhaps she can still find something of Uthvir's.*

*She turns, and heads deeper into the ruin, stepping over gnarled roots and tepid pools of water. The path to their old rooms is largely intact, though there does seem to be an unfortunate amount of evidence suggesting that the palace is also home to a nest of giant spiders. She grips the hilt of her weapon and swallows hard. After all these years, she still hates the creepy things.*-

Why is it always spiders? *She grouses in automatic Elvhen, bating away another section of webbing as she rounds the final corner leading to Uthvir's rooms.* Why can't these old ruins be infested with cats, or rabbits, or _halla_? 

*There is a ward on their door, but it is weak from the thousands of years without the renewal of magic, and she breaks it easily. The air in here is remarkably fresh, likely owing to the large tree that seems to have barged in through one of their walls, leaving half the floor covered in chunks of stone and plaster and wood, and letting in a wealth of golden sunlight through the opening. She grins, and pulls off her cloak and travel pack, dropping them at the base of the tree, letting the long tail of her braid fall across her back as she sets about her excavation. Most of their weapons were not truly theirs, which means those would be out in the armory instead of in their bedchamber, so she doesn’t hold much hope of finding any of them. She unearths a piece of their old armor though, badly dented, and barely holding onto a few patches of red lacquer, one of the coverings for their arms by the look of it. She places it with her things and turns to the slightly moldy remnants of their dresser. Nothing of their clothing has survived, which is hardly surprising, though she wishes she had something with the scent of them on it. There are a few trinkets, ruins of things, nothing she recognizes immediately as precious. And then her hand finds something small and smooth in the farthest corner of the bottom drawer. The shape slips as easily into her palm as the day they gave it to her: a creamy white oval, still trailing a slender rusting chain. She closes her hand over it tightly, pressing it to her chest as her heart lurches into a rough gallop, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.* 

  _Oh_... You...you _kept_ it. *She laughs wetly, and smiles down at the pendant in her hands as though it is the person who gave it to her and not simply a relic of the past.* How did you even manage to talk them into saving it for you instead of just throwing it away, you stubborn sentimental creature? *She laughs again, and presses it to her lips.*

The Nightmare: *They watch as she unearths their treasure. Their bane. Sealed away, in one of the brightest spaces of the ruin. They linger in the shadows, as she speaks, and kisses it. Recognizes it. What is this? Have they finally lost their last sense? She is _dead._  She was killed in Andruil's palace, while they were chained to the huntress's side. They felt her cleaved from them, the bond shattered, her light snuffed out. Agony. The reports were clear. The necklace she now holds was claimed from her cold corpse.*

*...That they never saw. But how could it be? Did she... deceive them? Did she not trust them? Concocting some plan, to what... fake her own death... break the tie between them... vanish, perhaps into the Dread Wolf's fold? Or has Mythal's pet found a way to pry the dead free from Falon'Din's dark claws? There are still markings on her face, though. Like a memory. But there is a weapon in her hand, now, and she uses it with more confidence and lack of thought than they can ever recall her wielding the little knife they taught her to use. The sunlight falls over her. Catching in the soft twists of her braid. Lighting her, like all the ghosts of their past seem to be lit, but she is _so real._ *

*Perhaps it is a trap? But who could even divine such a trap? Precious few had any idea of what she meant to them, and fewer still even know what has _become_  of them. Not even the Dread Wolf. Though, if it is a trap, perhaps they might yet turn it to their advantage. It has been a long time since anyone has ventured here. Any mind that could be convinced, tempted... drawn into helping them, from the other side of the Veil. Fear hesitates, a moment, before deciding. What would work? What would compel her, if she is - at least - playing the part?*

*It takes a few moments to muster up the illusion. To set it across the Veil. They have forgotten so much - forced themselves to - but this is simple, at least. Bright as moonlight, as they summon up the tiny little halla foal. Narrow legs, large eyes, the first nubs of its horns. A cruel spider bite on its side, and frightened, stressed spittle at the corners of its mouth, as they send it racing through the great hall. The sound of hoofbeats clatter, as it bleats in fear and distress, and one of their many-legged minions gives chase to it.*

Aili: *The echoing clatter of hooves and panicked bleating has her on her feet and running out the door before she can think, barely taking the time to slip her necklace into a pouch at her hip and grab up the hilt of her spirit blade. She would know that sound anywhere; a halla in distress.*

 *She splashes through muddy pools of water and runs headlong through half a dozen spider webs before tumbling through a doorway into the great hall. She nearly trips over one of the long tables, turned over on its side, covered in rotting cloth and decay and bits of broken flatware. Her eyes frantically scan the room until she spots the poor terrified creature, a foal no less, cowering in one corner as a huge spider closes in on it.*

*Fear spikes in her briefly, as it always seems to when facing down one of these many-legged monstrosities, but she puts it down, pushes it away. There is someone depending on her, and she needs to be calm. A golden blade bursts from the hilt in her hand, and she throws a cracked wine glass at the spider to get its attention. It wavers for a moment, torn between the easy prey before it, and the new threat behind it, but she sears its side with fire, and that seems to make up its mind. It shrieks in both pain and fury, charging at her from across the room. She holds her ground, spreading her stance as the creature scrabbles towards her, knowing that rage with make it careless. She slices its legs out from under it, sending another flash of fire blazing into its eyes. It screams again, flailing on one side as she circles around it and sinks her sword deep into its soft underbelly.*

*She stumbles away, breathing hard and splattered with gore, and sees that the little halla is still standing in the corner, petrified and shaking.*

Here now, *she calls to it softly, beckoning it with her free hand* if you come a bit closer, I can heal that nasty bite you've got... *She edges a bit closer, moving slowly* Where's your mama, hm? You know, I might have known your great great great great- Oh, come on! 

*The halla darts out of the hall and scampers farther into the palace, disappearing like a wisp of smoke, and she finds herself heaving a defeated sigh, unable to simply let the poor thing wander off to get eaten, and follows after it at a brisk trot.*

The Nightmare: *She is coming. They watch as she chases after the illusionary foal, and it is... like, and unlike, what they would expect. She slays their spider, without need for aid or intervention. Fierce, and they think, _I knew she could be._  They do not focus too much on the memories, though. These things keep pressing up, even despite their efforts. Whispering under the blankets of self-defense that they have erected, time and again. The Dreaming reflects them, in soft echoes. Touch. Secrets. Warmth. She said she loved them. She believed that they were real.*

*The halla leads her down and down, and she follows. Even where common sense should tell her not to, past yet more webs. The spiders keep their distance now, however. Rotted steps crumble, and the passageway she is in narrows, but she presses through. Calling for the animal. Its bleats echo, and finally Fear guides it into the chamber. The chained room, with its massive altar, and stained floor. With the boxes, in the six corners of it. Marked with feathers. Two for their legs. Two for their arms. One for their head, and one for the rest. All sealed away, not in death and not in dreaming. Their anchor, to this place.*

*If she is a trap, then they have led her to what she must be seeking. But if she is not, then she might be the only means of freeing them. Especially now that Corypheus is gone. They draw the halla into the room, and it collapses against the altar. Bleating shallowly, the image of blood trailing from its side calling up the memories of this place's purpose; and they almost regret their choice, then, because it is too much like... like the dreams, of what must have happened to _her._  A young halla on sacrificial stone.*

Aili: *The foal crumples against the alter as she finally manages to catch up to it, rushing over to its side. The healing magic is already blooming in her palms and she reaches for it, wondering if she can turn it so she can mend the wound more easily without hurting it further. But when she touches it, it vanishes into nothing. Evaporating like a cloud made of moonlight. She gasps, leaping back and away, hand moving for her blade again as she finally takes stock of her surroundings.*

*The alter the little halla fell against is covered in dark telling stains even after all these centuries. There are chains and claw marks across the walls, as though it has been a cage as well as a place of sacrifice. There is a huge glyph carved into the floor, to syphon the life force from those whose lives have been offered to the greatness of their lady. She swallows thickly as she glances back at the bloodied slab of stone, imagining the fate she might have met with if Glory's shard had not chosen to bond with her. Then she notices the boxes.*

*Six of them. One in each corner. Marked with a single curved feather and sealed with locks both magical and mundane. She moves as close to one as she dares, knowing better than to touch something still vibrating with so much pent up magic. This is not the sort of spellwork she has ever bothered to learn or practice; blood magic, after all, makes moving through the Fade even more difficult than it already is in this new muted and decaying world. But she knows enough of it to realize that something has been bound here. Some powerful beast or spirit that the huntress decided to enslave for the thrill or threat of it.*

*She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest, not bothering to keep the resentment out of her voice as she looks about for some sign of what the Evanuris has hidden away.*

Oh, Andruil, what stupid, cruel, or dangerous thing have you done _this_ time? 

The Nightmare: *They listen, as she speaks. Speak as one who knows Andruil's cruelty. Another fuel for this fire; the modern elves, the forest wraiths and city shades, do not speak of Andruil in terms of cruelty. She is but a whisper, to them. A hollow figure shaped by arrows and hares and fortunate hunts. It considers, further. It could close the doors. Trap her in here, until she performs the ritual or starves, but she may be stubborn enough to starve. Much caution has been learned in these times, towards the things driven and bound and hidden by the old ways.*

*Her mercy. Her mercy has ever been their... their...*

*A memory comes. Fingers on their cheek. Breath on their lips. _Vhenan,_  she whispers. There is warmth between them, sinking down deep, and acceptance, and she is so soft and beautiful and gentle. Theirs. Their own. Holding them in the dark, even when their unworthiness was made clear. Even when she should have run, and turned them aside. When all their fears ought to have been realized, as Fear had always known they would be.*

*She denied that one, however. Granted them something... else.*

*Perhaps that is the key, in the end. Her mercy. Fear reaches out, and brushes the faintest breath of wind across the Veil. Old feathers rustle. The trophies upon the ceilings. Wings. Most of them decrepit, now, but the preservation magic has lingered upon a few. Amidst the tattered dust and skeletons, they answer Fear's call, and shift. A rippling effect that draws her gaze upwards, as brown feathers begin to drop. Falling, filling up the pit below, as they had once filled the grave of a certain spirit.*

...Vhenan... help...

Aili: *She stares up at the tattered wings as they flap weakly on the ceiling, like injured birds still struggling to fly. The dusty feathers molt from them in abundance, falling to the bloodstained floor like snow. She holds her hand out for one, and it drifts softly into her palm. Golden brown. Like the feathers on the boxes. Like the wings of some great bird of prey. Like...*

*She turns again at the sound of the voice, plaintive this time. But there is still no one. Her heart clenches in her chest, to hear them calling for her again is torturous. First, the vision of the young injured halla and now _this_. Whatever is here, it must have enough strength to sift through her thoughts in order to find how best to hurt her. She clenches the feather in her hand, scowling at the darkness as though daring it to meet her.*

Whoever you are, if you've lured me here to do something for you, you're going about it _completely_ the wrong way. Tell me what you need, and I'll see if I can help you . *Her eyes dart back up towards the fluttering wings and her face twists further in obvious anguish.* Stay out of my memories. Those aren't for you. Those aren't for _anyone_.

The Nightmare: *Stay out of her memories? They are not in her memories. No more than what is spilling from her into the Dreaming itself, anyway. But they venture closer, rather than further, at her admonishment. Determination and guardedness, but beneath that... fear. As all things have their fear. Fear of losing too much, again. Of having old pains dragged once more to the surface, where they might wound and disarm. It considers. Perhaps this is only a reversal, in turn. Perhaps she is a chance that has come only to torment them, before passing by again.*

*Memories...*

*But it has memories that are not hers. That Vhenan never saw. It calls them up, in whispers and phantoms. Pressing upon the Veil. Trying to _show._  The gleaming halla appears in the middle of the room, and turns into a figure. A woman. Beautiful and bright, dressed in a servant's clothes, but radiant still. And then the feathers swirl, and another figure appears. Sharp and red, like a swath of blood. The sight makes the woman in the room take a step back, and they can almost feel her anger and pain as they would have, in ages past. They think she will turn to leave, and they will have to trap her after all; but though she takes another step back, she does not turn away from the image, either.*

*A black arrow flies. The bright figure falls; one memory bleeding into others. She is cut down by blades, is swallowed by darkness, is left to spill apart at the feet of the red figure. Who staggers back, in turn, just as the woman by the altar had. Chains close around it. Held fast in the grip of a huntress; and Andruil's image is almost clearer than any others, in this place, even after all this time. She pulls the chains on the red figure, and the chains on the walls rattle. She holds their throat, and pours bright blue poison into it; and their claws grow long and their outline changes. Less the image of an elf, and far more the abomination. The gauge marks on the walls whisper, as the huntress tears them apart. Chains clashing, feathers falling; red turning black, as they are torn asunder, and each sundered piece drifts towards one of the boxes at the corners of the room.*

*The image of the huntress remains. Covered in blood. An echo strong enough that the flash of her eyes, the curl of her lips, unsettles even Fear for a moment.*

Aili: *Without a thought, her sword is in her hand, a glimmering manifestation of her rage, as she surges towards the specter of the Evanuris with an ear-splitting roar. The blade meets nothing but air, and she crashes bodily into the alter, scraping her hand across it's rough surface hard enough to draw blood. She sags against it, barely able to keep her feet as she trembles with a fresh waves of grief. Her breaths come in ragged gasps as she fights the urge to cry. It's a battle she finds herself losing quite abruptly as she lifts her head and her eyes fix on one of the boxes tucked into the corners of the room.*

No. *She breathes the word with mounting horror, shaking her head as though denying it will somehow make it true.* No no no _no_. You're dead. You died. Andruil always kept you at her side, and she fell with Arlathan. Physically trapped in the Dreaming. One voice among thousands, crying out from where I had no hope of reaching you... *She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes* Not  _here._ Not here for all this time...like _this_. You were her most favored, her most... She couldn't have just _left_ you.

*She shakes her head again, but she finally manages to pull herself off of the sacrificial stone and shakily make her way over to one of the boxes. She kneels down next to it and extends her hand over the lid, before hesitating. This could still be a trick. A clever ruse by some demon who has lingered in this place long enough to have picked apart its history from the memories of the Dreaming. And Uthvir has been at the forefront of her thoughts since she stepped foot through the door. It would not be difficult to pantomime some grisly fate for them that she would now be compelled to undo. The spirit may turn and kill her as soon as it is free. Still. She has to know for certain. She will not leave them in darkness and solitude. She cannot abandon them again.*

*She sets her hand down, and the old magic buzzes fiercely at proximity to living flesh and pumping blood, rattling up the bones of her arm. She closes her eyes and reaches for connection, for the faintest scrap of light that might yet linger. The remnant of Glory within her never fully recovered from the night of her escape, but it is still there, quietly echoing the beat of her own heart. If there is anything left of Uthvir in this place, she will sense it. She will know.*

*For a few long moments, there is nothing but cold quivering darkness rising up from the box, and she is about to pull her hand away and try and make a mad dash from the room... And then she feels it. The tiniest glimmer of recognition. Like calling back to like. A whisper of Glory.*

*A strangled noise rips from her throat as she frantically begins to tear at the lid of the box, scrabbling at faded wards and locks until she loses her patience and simply blows them off with a blast of magic, toppling back onto the floor with a grunt. She scrambles back towards her target, tossing the lid away and- something seems to break from her chest with an anguished cry.*

*Uthvir's severed head is lying there, cushioned on faded velvet lining in deep red. Their eyes are closed, as though merely sleeping, and their golden skin is pallid and waxy. There are dark swollen veins around their eyes and mouth, likely from lyrium, but otherwise it is them, perfectly preserved.*

*Her hands tremble as she cups their face in her hands and gently lifts them from this portion of their prison, tears burning down her cheeks in streams.*

Oh... Oh, my poor dear heart...what has she done to you now? *Her voice is thick, broken sobs shaking out of her between almost every word.* You were supposed to leave her. Why didn't you leave? I was waiting... *She finds herself overcome for a moment, curling forward and pressing her brow to theirs, surrendering to the crushing weight of sorrow mingled with regret, to thousands of years of loss layered upon loss.* I...I should have come back for you. Even if she cut me down, I should have tried. I should have... What...can I do? How can I fix this? Please, Vhenan, just this once, let me save you. Are you the one who led me here? Please...

The Nightmare: *The box is opened. Magic blasts apart old and worn seals, and they can _feel_  how the solid weight of their prison begins to lose its hold. Just a little. Their head is removed from its box, and cradled close as the woman... the woman who, they are beginning to think, really is _her,_  cradles them and cries her regret. _You were supposed to leave her._  Leave her? To what end? To go to the rebels who, back then, had seemed doomed to failure? To be conscripted to fight those who could not be slain in battle? No. All they had left was to survive; and this they have done.*

*And she has done, too, it seems.*

*Aili. Aili who died, but did not die. A sensible falsehood, they suppose. And yet the depth of her remorse, given that, is surprising. Did she really think they would divine her actions, and come to her? She convinced them so thoroughly of her death. Or perhaps, after all the years, that is only what she tells herself. To make it easier to sleep. To dream of long lost lovers, as they have not been able to for centuries upon centuries. But she is still... bright, they think. And there is still, just faintly, that trace of Glory in her. Greatness has not forsaken her. Their heart, perhaps, has never entirely let go of her, even as it lies still in the confines of another box.*

*They venture closer. The Veil no longer quite so constraining, as they can reach part of themselves again. The whisper mind of the Husk; of Andruil's pet. Thoughts locked away, preserved as it had been on the eve when Andruil tore them apart. The lyrium still running through their veins makes them bright. Easy to reach, as they manage to see, for a moment, through those eyes again. To waken some of that layer of consciousness, lips twitching, eyelashes fluttering. It is... painful. In a dull way, like a long ache that has been endured for so many years, it has become a new kind of normalcy.*

Vhenan. Open the rest.

Aili: *Expecting the return of the disembodied voice, she startles sharply when the head in her arms speaks, nearly dropping it. She holds it a little more firmly after that, still trying to be gentle, gazing down in astonishment as the eyelashes flutter briefly and the mouth twitches, as though dreaming.*

Yes! Yes, of course! *She agrees quickly, still sniffling a bit, hurrying to clamber back onto her feet, beaming down at them all the while. It is, admittedly, a little unnerving to be talking to the head of her former lover which has been separated from the rest of their body, but mostly all she feels is an almost giddy sense of relief. She can _do_ something. She can set things right. After all this time, there is something she has lost that she at least has some hope of regaining. It's been a long time since she had any of that. Hope. For a taste of tangible happiness. However fleeting it may prove to be.*

*She frowns when it becomes apparent that the only place in the room to set their head down is on the sacrificial alter. She supposes that is where the ritual to piece them back together will have to take place anyway, but she dislikes it all the same. She lays them down carefully, kissing her fingers and pressing them to their lips before moving back towards another one of the boxes.*

Just for a little while, I promise.

*She sets about her task with relish; she's always had a knack for blowing things up. This requires a bit of precision, as she doesn't want to harm any parts of the body sealed away, but she takes a certain joy in decimating anything she knows to be Andruil's personal handiwork. With each seal she cracks open, she finds the general darkness and repressive air of the room seems to lessen. Not by much, but enough to take note of. She discovers that they are still in one of their old suits of armor, though a few pieces are clearly lacking, having been discarded or destroyed when the huntress had hacked them apart in order to bind them. It makes carrying them back over the alter a bit more awkward than she had anticipated, not that she has had a _lot_ of experience hauling around other people's body parts, but still. They're bulky in her arms. Heavy and sharp. Especially their torso, which happens to be in the last container she opens. She arranges their appendages in the correct form before asking for further instructions, slightly out of breath.*    

What next?

Uthvir: *They come together, slowly. Piece by piece. At once waking up, and having never gone to sleep. Fear watches from the Dreaming, and through the Veil; and the body's senses return to it, bit by bit. Twitching, grasping, rising up from the deep well of pain. There is touch upon them again. Fingers at their lips. Arms around their chest. Hands on their legs. It all comes together, and they hear a voice. A voice they know. A voice they... forgot, buried, but it speaks. It asks, and they answer with a trembling voice that seems to come from all the quietest parts of themselves.*

Run.

*The air in the room changes, as the last remaining tether of the binding ritual snaps. Fear surges into their form again. The Veil thin as paper, and so easy to rip apart. To press through. In the wash of magic, their pieces seal together again. Healing energy indiscernible from blood magic and necromancy, all of it crashing together with a _snap_  that sends shockwaves through the chamber. That altar cracks, and they rise up from it. Black winds unfolding around them, as their claws grow jagged, and their teeth grow long, and blood red wings crack out from their spine. Dark and sleeping spirits, strewn throughout the ruin, wake along with them. The lyrium burns through their veins. As if someone has lit a match for it, at long last.*

*She is a flash of gold in their vision. The last tether they have to anything, now; a thin, bright chord, which they could snap apart. Snap and be free. For an instant, they almost do it. She does not heed their warning, and so they catch her up in their claws; but as their grip closes around her, their resolve to break her ebbs.*

Aili: *She barely has time to register the warning to run before a shockwave of power snaps through the room, cracking the alter and knocking her back. She skids across the floor, only stopping when she crashes into the fragments of one of the boxes that had held them. Their body contorts and changes into some nightmarish version of themselves. Long black claws, distorted limbs, blood red wings, and cruel fangs.*

*Perhaps she should be regretting breaking the binding right about now, but she cannot. There have been so many mistakes. So many losses that she has felt accountable for, and she knew someday, somehow, she would pay for them. Mercy has never been one of her regrets, however. Granting freedom and protection and kindness where she could. She does not regret giving them to Uthvir. She does not regret loving them, even now. For striving for one more word from them, even if it was only used to try and send her away.*

*They sweep across the room, grabbing her up in their razor sharp talons, both hands wrapping around her neck, grimacing at her with a mouth of long jagged teeth as though contemplating whether or not they want to simply snap her neck or rend the flesh from her bones. Their hands do not squeeze, not yet, though their claws slowly sink into her skin, making her wince despite herself. She supposes it is fitting that she die here, after all this time. As though Andruil's orders had only been delayed, and now her favored hunter has come to carry them out at long last. It seems just, after what she helped Solas do. After failing to save them for so long.*

*She closes her eyes, tears slipping down her face in spite of her best efforts to fight them. She had been so sure she had felt the echo of Glory in them. That their heart had responded to hers, even from somewhere in their frozen dreamless sleep. Is this Uthvir, or something that has claimed their waking body? Is this Fear? Even if she has earned this death, shouldn't she try to reach them, if there is any part of them left to answer her?*

*Her mind turns to memories of softness. Days out in the sunshine. Playful banter. A chase through the woods. Words that meant safety. A magic word to call them back from fantasy. To change them back into Uthvir again. A word to say 'stop'.*

*She places her hands over theirs, seeking just enough leverage to gain the breath to speak, staring at the twisted contours of their face, looking for some trace of her heart.*

Dandelion.


	2. Misstress Mine

Uthvir: *The word is soft and the voice is soft, the hands on their own gentle, and they stop without even consciously deciding to. Just... halt, as if that is the only natural course they can take. Their wings sweep up, and confusion washes over them. Disorientation so intense that they almost feel dizzy. Something plucks at their chest. A string, wrapped around their heart; something they had felt was digging into the flesh, but... it is not. Not anymore. The poison burns much more fiercely, as their grip relaxes. Nails retracting from skin. Beads of blood trailing downwards; a familiar face, turned towards them in supplication.* 

Vhenan.

*They loosen their grip, and change it. Moving in to lick the wounds closed, as they hold her close. It feels... they have been dreaming. Bad dreams. Andruil did something to them. Andruil is always doing something to them. This time must have been particularly bad, though. Fear is disjointed, fragmented and strained, and the air feels wrong, and they _ache._  Through and through. Was it all a nightmare, then?*

I dreamed that you died.

*They curl a hand around her cheek, and close their eyes. Inhaling the scent of her. It feels like it has been so long, since they held her. They were... away. Yes. Away, and dreaming, and they dreamed that she died, but clearly she did not. Perhaps Andruil discovered their affections. Perhaps they were punished, and Aili had to run away. Is it safe, now? Where is Andruil? What place is this?*

Where are we?

*Something pulls at them. Whispers. They are in Andruil's palace, and they have been dreaming, yes. Fear has been at work, and... things have happened, but... what is real?*

Aili: *She wraps them up in her arms with an almost desperate air, fierce and clinging. She thinks that she would almost be willing to spend the rest of her life simply standing here with them safely locked in her embrace, until this world is burned to ash as surely as the one that came before it. Not that she'd be willing to lose them to that again. Or anything else, for that matter.* 

Uthvir. *Their name slides from her lips like a prayer, moving her hands up to their head and sweeping their hair back from their face to get a better look at them. They are still pale, and they do not look...well, but it is undeniably their face. Their features. Their expression. Uthvir is alive and present and mostly whole, and that is so much more than she had yesterday. More than she ever thought to have again.* _Uthvir_. 

*She continues stroking them with a sort of disbelieving reverence, murmuring their name and running her hands through their hair and over the shape of their ears before cupping their face and pressing her mouth to theirs. Brief and chaste and trembling. She sighs against their lips.* Ma vhenan.

*She pulls back slightly, before she is tempted to try for more than is safe or wise in their present situation, and fishes her old necklace out of the pouch at her hip, pressing it into their palm.* 

Your dream was real, Vhenan. Though...perhaps not all of it was as it seemed. We are in the depths of your former lady's palace...or at least, what remains of it. I will answer any question you can think to ask me...but not here. This place is... *She tries to think of some way to explain the Veil without getting into the history of it, pausing for a moment and pursing her lips.* Vulnerable. To angry restless spirits. Breaking your wards might have unsettled other things lurking in the dark. We may find it difficult to leave. Do you think you could fight, if you had to?

Uthvir: *Vulnerable. This place... this is the palace? Yes. Yes, of course it is. They are chained in the palace. They remember, now. Aili is - was - there is going to be a sacrifice, they think. Andruil plans to sacrifice Aili? They look around, seeing ruin and destruction, and a mangled altar. Their heartbeat is strange in their own ears, and they know that they are disoriented. Things are not lining up the way they should. They do not _feel_  the way they should. But... they were chained, and Andruil was... displeased. And Aili. Vhenan. She is not dead? But she might be.*

*They shake their head, and hiss, and look around again. Aili is still touching them. She seems smaller than usual, they think, as they lift her up. They need to get her away. Away from the altar, and Andruil, and the palace. The rest can wait. There are decrepit walls around them, and her question echoes in their ears. Can they fight? They are aching. They feel tired, and worn down, and Fear is strangely disconnected. There-but-not. Present, but not in the way it _should_  be, as if it must either be too much in them, or too little. But they can fight, they think. They are not without reserve. They hold their heart close as they stride heavily through the ruin they are in. Not the palace, but... the layout is the same. This place has long been abandoned, however. Nature is making strides in reclaiming much of it, and it is quiet.*

Where is Andruil?

*That is something they must know. If she is coming, and where she might be lurking, and how she might have hidden herself. If she is hiding.*

Aili: *She briefly considers objecting when they scoop her into their arms and begin making their way up through the bowels of the crumbling palace, but Uthvir is clearly struggling to focus. To make some sense of their surroundings. And if keeping her near helps with that, then she can tolerate their unwarranted overprotection for the time being. Besides, if something comes at them in the dark, she can raise a barrier easily enough, and dispatch the monster with her spirit blade and climb right back into her lover's arms, if that is where they want her.*

*When they ask about their mistress, she looks up at them cautiously, once again trying to think of a simple way to explain. For now, at least. She supposes she will have to give them the whole history of what happened when she fled from Andruil's palace out into the woods, and everything that followed. She does not relish the thought of recounting every chapter of that tale, but she will. Because they are her heart, and she promised to answer all of their questions. Just as she will answer this one now.*

She has been...imprisoned. With all that is left of her kin. For thousands of years now. *She takes a deep breath, watching them carefully to gauge their reaction before continuing.* Their prison has been slowly growing weaker, however. No one knows what they'll do once they finally break free, though the general consensus seems to be that it won't be good.

*They are quiet as they think over what she has said, though she is uncertain if it is confusion or disbelief written on their face, and she finds herself wishing, as she often has, that emotions still hung in the air about them to be seen and felt and understood.*

*They enter the great hall, and make to turn towards the doorway that will lead them to the swiftest exit from the palace. Uthvir still seems lost in thought. She taps their shoulder gently to draw their attention back to her.*

I left my pack in your old room, do you mind if we get it before we leave? You might be able to find some old gear of yours in there, I wasn't sure where you kept all of it, and it was a bit of a mess.     

Uthvir: *Thousands of years. Andruil was... sealed away? No. _Uthvir_  was sealed away. But not with her. They dreamed of... things. A wall. A wall in the dark, coming up and up beneath them. Cutting them in half, it felt like. Just, slowly. There was an old trick Falon'Din used to do with a guillotine. Strap someone down, and then hang a sharpened blade over them. Every few seconds, the blade would drop a little lower. Inching and inching. The first cut, when at last it came, would be shallow. Often the next few would trace the same path, before it lowered again, and... and it was like that, they think. But with barriers rather than blades. Pieces of them are still gone, they think, but they do not know which. They were trying to put themselves back together.*

*Aili put them back together.*

*She mentions her bag, and their rooms. They think, perhaps, they should hurry. If Andruil is coming. They should hurry, and leave, now, before she gets here. Uthvir does not want to watch her die. She died before, and it hurt, and they did not even have to see it. Could they talk their way out of it? What would they say, they wonder? Thousands of years. She will be bored, after all that time. She will want her poison drink, and her sport, and to have them in her chambers. Take the knife and cut. Cut slowly, cut apart all the pieces that were put back together.*

*There are wards in their rooms. They carry Aili there, and listen. Dark things scurry up. Crawling from the depths. Their feet halt upon the threshold, at the sound of a whisper. _Andruil is coming._  Coming to kill Vhenan. They put her down, swiftly, and check their room. There is a new exit, a crumbled wall, and the wards have gone down but some still might work. They move back towards the door, as Aili gathers up her things.*

_Andruil is coming. She calls for you, Uthvir._  *The voice whispers, figures moving, the palace springing into action. As it always did. They blink, and they can see it. Hunters rushing to greet the returning party. Shouting, calling, hurrying. Aili at the stables... no. She can hide in their rooms.*

Stay here. I will go distract her. You must escape, while I do. Wait for nightfall.

Aili: *She just barely manages to snag hold of their wrist as they make to head back out the door, forcing them to turn and face her. Their eyes are slightly glazed, distracted, distant.*

I most certainly will _not_ stay here. Outside of the fact that it's a complete dump, you're mad if you think I'm about to let you wander off by yourself in the state you're in. I just got you back, and I have no intention of losing you again. *She takes their face in her hands, trying to direct their gaze.* Look at me. _Look at me!_ *She runs her thumbs over their cheeks.* I'm right here. I'm real. _You're_ real. And you're awake. Focus. ...What did you hear?

Uthvir: *They frown, as she touches them. A dump? They look around, and they can see it. They are in a ruin. Not their rooms. Why did they think these were their rooms? They have no rooms. Not anymore. Andruil moved them. Moved them down, into the dark. With the chains. She is coming.*

She is coming. She will kill you, and tear me apart. I have to go meet her party. She might not look for you here.

_Andruil is coming. She has sent for you, Uthvir._

She has sent for me.

Aili: *Her expression cracks at their assertion. At the certainty in their voice. What new punishment is this? Is it from the lyrium? The binding? Fear? Thousands of years alone in the dark? She swallows thickly and tries to force herself to smile, to show reassurance and calm so they will not panic and try to do something drastic.*

There is no one here but us, my love. With the exception of some spiders and possibly a few spirits who have pressed through from the Dreaming. Andruil is still locked away. Her prison has not broken yet. We would... I would know, if it had. I would tell you. There is time for us to leave together, right now. We will be far _far_ away from here before she ever manages to come back to it. And if she even breathes in your direction, I will cleave her head from her shoulders.

Uthvir: *They frown, at that. Andruil is... not here yet? _She is coming._  They must go, then. Go... go together. Yes. That would be best, they can escape, and then their heart will not need to make such dangerous promises. Or at least, not where they could be overheard. They take stock of their room again, thinking of supplies. But when they go to reach for one of the weapons' racks, the knife that comes away is broken. Rusted. They frown at it for a moment, before casting it aside. Thousands of years... they blink, and they can see the ruin again. Feel Fear, but it is still... disjointed.*

We should hurry...

*They turn, and for the first time, they realize there is something heavy at their back. A glance across their shoulder freezes them. Wings. Why do they have their wings out? They stare at the feathers. Something is wrong with them. Andruil did something to them. New trophies. They stare, suddenly at a loss.*

Why... why are my wings...?

Aili: *She glances at the appendages in question, eyebrows furrowing in concern. The fact that Uthvir, who is and always has been so much in control of their shape and appearance, did not notice this difference in themselves is...not a good sign. But...they have been locked away for a very long time, and from what she can tell, they have not even been able to dream or walk the few remaining pathways through the Fade. Hopefully, with time...*

It's... It's fine. You're going to be alright. You're just a bit...out of sorts at the moment, which is perfectly understandable, given the circumstances. We'll get out of here, and we'll sit down someplace nice and quiet and figure everything out and you'll feel better in no time.

*Her eyes flick to the rusted blade they had toss to the floor and she reaches for the spare hunting knife strapped to her bag. When she holds it out to them, she notices that her necklace is still dangling from one of their hands. She takes it from them as she presses her offering into their hands, flashing them a weak smile as she clasps it around her neck.* 

There. We're all ready to go now. I've got my necklace and my bag, and we should have enough supplies between us to last for a few days. Long enough to leave this place in the dust, anyway. And you've got me and your knife there to keep you safe. At least until we find you something better.    

*She takes their hand and guides them from the room, attempting to walk as fast as she can without actually acting like she wants to run out of here with them at full speed. The sooner they are gone from this place the better, she thinks, but Uthvir is still on edge, and she doesn't want to exacerbate the problem with a frantic dash towards the doorway, as though the Evanuris really was nipping at their heels.*

*She looks back at them and finds they still look troubled, eyeing their blood red wings with obvious apprehension, head still whipping around to glance at shadows and sounds only they seem to be capable of hearing. Her heart twists, and she wishes she could reach out and brush her feelings across them. Her reassurance and love. She grips their hand a little tighter and begins to hum.*

_A blue bird_

_A lover_

_An arrow of sun_

_A hunter goes roaming_

_For sport and for fun_

_But who shall he turn to_

_When daylight is done_

_If the prize he went seeking_

_He had already won?_

_A falter_

_A feather_

_Bow raised to the sky_

_His heart should be waiting_

_But she wanted to fly..._

*She pauses, considering, before letting out a deep sigh. She'd wanted to do something calming and familiar, but...*

Perhaps that wasn't the best song to have picked.

Uthvir: *The palace - the ruin - is a sea of confusion. Whispers and memories, and strange, distorted things. It does not work right. Aili holds their hand, and they can feel her. See her. But her emotions are too tight. She is keeping them hidden? Uthvir's own are tight, too. But... yes. They have to keep hidden. No one can know, or else Andruil will know, and then they will be even more done for. They look back at their wings, and wish they could put them away. Walking around with them out is asking for trouble. They try and reach for Fear, again, but all they get is the same confused and disjointed response. A sense of frustration. Nothing is working as it should, and it is all the fault of... someone.*

*When Aili begins to hum, though, they look at her. The words drift almost meaninglessly through them, as they take in the casual notes of the song. Familiar and grounding. She leads them through the halls, to the main gates - to the ruined entrance, crumbling and long abandoned - and then she stops. _Perhaps that wasn't the best song to have picked._  They do not see what was wrong with it. A hunting song, in a hunter's hall.*

I like your voice.

*The words escape them, murmuring. They missed it. For so long. They missed it, and dreamed she was dead. And she says she wasn't dead, but that their dream was true. But this is not death. Falon'Din is not here, to catch them as they pass, and cage them once again.*

_He is coming._

*They still, looking around the hall. No. Andruil is not here; surely Falon'Din would not come, in her absence.*

_He is coming. With her. They are both coming. Andruil and Ghilan'nain have made gifts to their brother, to appease him. To stop the fight with him. His chambers are empty, now that he has spilled the blood of his followers. He has need for new servants. Attendants. Pets._

We have to go. They are coming for us.

*They sweep Aili up into their arms, and make their way towards the exit, hurrying plainly now. The servants and hunters in the main hall might see, but now is the time for speed, rather than subtlety. Where can they go? There are hunting outposts, but Andruil will look for them there. They need to get into the crossroads, then-*

*They reach the threshold of the palace, their boot steps upon it, and something _wrenches_  at them. Searing chains. A weight in their gut. A thousand heavy hands reaching them, even through some wavering barrier, and closing around their limbs. The air bursts. Aili drops from their grasp, and they shriek, as a thousand unseen runes ignite in their flesh. The blue poison burns. Their wings catch flame, and they hurtle backwards, slamming into one of the stone pillars that had fallen across the entryway. Their armour cracks and breaks apart in places, and their back burns from the impact and the pain in their wings.*

_She is coming. She has sent for you. You must wait for your mistress, dear hawk._

Aili: *She lands heavily on the ground as some unseen force yanks Uthvir away from her and back into the ruins of Andruil's palace. There is half a moment where she finds herself simply lying in the dirt, stunned, but at the sound of Uthvir's scream she is rolling to her feet, fire blazing in one hand and spirit blade gleaming in the other. She rushes back towards them, ready to take on whatever new horror this place has contrived. But there is no monster. No demon or spider or any other visible threat. Only Uthvir, writhing on the floor of the entryway, howling in apparent agony, crimson wings burning.*

*She curses, switching fire and wrath for healing and water, attempting to put out the flames at their back first and foremost. She staggers to the floor beside them and they reach for her, delirious and hysterical, babbling about Andruil and Falon'Din and escaping old ghosts. The fire seems to be impervious to her magic, though it does not appear to be actively consuming their flesh either. It simply licks across skin and hair and feathers, scorching without feeding itself. Torture without even the escape of death to hope for.*

*Andruil's mercy at its finest.*

*Uthvir curls into her, desperate enough that they nearly crawl into her lap. Their eyes are wide and frantic as they hiss at her to flee, but their hands close around her, sharp jagged nails slowly digging into her through the boiled leather of her armor as they struggle to hold onto some fragment of themselves. She touches them with healing magic, uncertain of what else to do or where else they might be hurting.*

I’m here. I’m right here, Vhenan. I won’t leave you. I…I’m going to find some way to help you, don’t worry. Just…just hold on. Be brave. You’re so good at being brave; just be strong a little longer while I figure out what to do. 

*She wishes she could feel them, _really_ feel them, as she used to. Before the glory in her all but spent itself to spare her life. She squeezes her eyes shut and reaches for the tiny spark she had felt before, the Veil has weakened such bonds substantially, and theirs was tenuous long before it had risen, but she pushes through, straining with nearly all the magic she is capable of calling into herself. Their connection always sang the loudest when she healed them.*

_Help them. Save them. Save them as you saved me. They are yours and they loved you, please. Take what you need from me. Anything. Everything. Or help me see how. Tell me how. You chose me, but **I** chose **them**. They are my heart, and I tell you: they are **glorious**.  _

*The remnant within her trembles in her chest, struggling, but after a few anxious moments, something answers, flaring much more powerfully than her tiny flicker of the former spirit. She can feel it pushing at something as it tries to reach back for her, sizzling and bright.*

*Uthvir shrieks in terror, trying to recoil from what must seem like treachery on her part, but she holds them fast. Normally, they would overpower her easily, but she is much stronger than she used to be, and they are disoriented and in a staggering amount of pain. She tries to calm them as best she can.*

Shhh, I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’m going to save you, I promise. Everything is going to be alright.

*They answer by biting her savagely, long sharp teeth cutting through leather and cloth to sink deep into the meat of her shoulder. She lets out a strangled gasp, but refuses to relinquish her grip on them. Something in them is shifting, darkness creeping back in the presence of light. There is blood seeping from her wound. She feels weak and dizzy. Their feeble connection pulses with one last great surge before sputtering into silence, and she is momentarily blinded by a gleam of gold. Golden feathers lying in a pit. Golden wings. Sad tattered trophies fluttering helplessly on the huntress’ walls.*

*She looks down at their back, a large piece of their armor has cracked and fallen away, revealing the flesh beneath, mangled from years and years of stabs and slices and cuts. She can see where scarlet wings sprout from skin, dark bulging veins flickering with traces blue. The poison blood of the earth.*

*Cold realization settles in her gut and, for some reason, she thinks of Pride. Of the bright young man he had been when they first met, eager and kind. He had loved the People, and now his name is a curse. She has seen the crushing weight of his gaze, the hunch of his shoulders in a moment of quiet. The ghosts that seem to trail in his wake. She thinks maybe she can understand him a little bit better now. ‘ _The Healer has the bloodiest hands_.’*

I am going to save you, Vhenan.

*She presses their head more firmly to her shoulder, the last of her magic reserves hoovering beneath her skin, ready to be spent on closing their wounds. Her spirit blade forms in her free hand, forged by the strength of her intent, sharper than a shaft of sunlight and brighter than a dream.*

…And you are going to hate me for it.

*With a single smooth motion, she raises her arm and begins to cut the wings from their shoulders.*


	3. Into the Woods

Uthvir: *Everything is chaos, and pain, and they have Vhenan, but they are terrified. It hurts. It burns. They cannot see her, she is not real, she is a dream. She is dead. They are dying. It hurts so badly, and then they feel the first cut.*

*The blade sinks into the flesh of their wings, and they still. They know this pain. They must hold still, or it will be worse. They swallow, and even though it is all burning, they go limp. Passive. Metal tears through bones and sinew and feathers, familiar motions as Andruil presses down, keeping them still. Moving mercifully fast. She cleaves first one wing from them, and then the other. They brace themselves for the inevitable twisting of their flesh. For fingers in their wounds. The burning has stopped, at least. For a few seconds the only sound in the chamber is the ragged rasp of their breaths, and the soft _drip-drop-drip_  of the blood running down their back. Landing on warped floor tiles.*

*Then there is a whisper. Healing magic. The wounds knit easily; they are accustomed to that repair. Their wings are large, dark shadows of flesh on the floor beside them. _She has come. The seal is broken; you must serve her. Did you not promise to serve her? Always?*_

*They think they did. Whispered promises. On their knees. In one moment they see a woman, dark and glittering, sharp and carved and looming and powerful. In the next moment they see another. Bright and small, fierce and gentle.*

_Did you not promise to serve her?_

I did.

*They stay on their hands and knees, as a gentle touch falls upon their shoulder. Waiting, in cracked armour. Bracing themselves. Their mistress has come for them, and the chance to escape has gone.*

Aili: *Uthvir is silent, crouching on the floor before her. Her shoulder is a steady throbbing ache, but she does not think she has the mana left to close it. Her fingers are going numb and she feels ragged. There is blood still seeping through her clothes, and smeared across Uthvir's mouth, and...dripping down their back. She reaches out and touches their shoulder, tentative.*

*They do not look at her. Tears burn in her eyes, and she wonders when she will ever run out of them. When the world will stop finding new choices for her to regret. When she will stop losing things.*

*She moves her fingers to their face and they finally look up into her eyes. Their expression is inscrutable, almost blank. She swallows thickly.*

Vhenan? 

Uthvir: *They stare at their mistress, as she calls for them. What does she wish? Their gaze shifts towards her shoulder, and they swallow. There is blood in their mouth. Blood the shape of their bite, seeping down her shoulder. They feel faint. They have wounded her. In their struggling, they must have... she will take the cost of that, from them. Of course she will. But perhaps she is giving them the chance at penance, first.*

*They reach over, and carefully seal the wound. It is difficult to cast the spell. An extra challenge. But they focus, listening to her sharp intake of breath as her skin glows, and they feel something pulse within them, in turn. Something almost painful. They swallow it back, and finish casting, before lowering their head down to the floor of the chamber. Bowing as low as they can.*

Mistress. I am yours. Please forgive this lowly pet its transgressions.

Aili: *She frowns when they call her 'mistress' and prostrate themselves in the lowest bow they can, face pressing into the grimy cracked tiles of the floor. She takes a moment to assess the situation, rubbing at her freshly healed shoulder. It still hurts, but at least she isn't losing blood anymore.* 

Are you... Can you hear me, Vhenan? Do you know who I am? *Perhaps she has actually made things worse, and they are finally lost to whatever ghosts have been plaguing them. Her hands clench. Well... She'll just have to find a way around it. They can live out in the woods easily enough. She can take care of them until they remember. And even if they don't, it will be... _something_. And if they cannot leave the palace, then she will stay. She will hunt and fish nearby to keep them both fed, and fend off any curious wanderers who come too close, in case they try to slay them in order to plunder the ruins. There are wards and seals that she can place in the surrounding area. She can... They can be...*

*A quiet sob escapes her, despite her best efforts. Her voice cracks when she speaks again.* 

D-do you... Does it still hurt anywhere?

Uthvir: *They do not look up, as they have not been given leave to. Their lady's voice cracks, as she asks them a question, though, and it is hard to keep their eyes down. They cannot feel her anger. That is either a good sign, or it is a terrible one. Perhaps she is so angry that she is containing it only to stop it from ruling her entirely. Perhaps her fury is so potent, they cannot distinguish it from the oppressive air around them. It takes them a moment to parse her question. A moment too long, perhaps.*

*They brace for a blow. A touch. A gentleness that will turn hard, to mete out punishment. Do they hurt? She will likely wish to know where best to bring them more pain.*

My spine aches, my lady, and my bones feel brittle. My chest is also pained. If you wish to break my ribs, that would be excruciating right now. Placing weights upon my back would likely cause me great suffering. I do not know if I could withstand strangulation right now, but of course, that is at your discretion.

Aili: *She blanches. They think she is... That she would... Her eyes drift to the large crumpled shapes of their wings lying on the ground. Of course. She has does something monstrous to them, and now they think she is a monster. But maybe, with enough time...with enough proof of her affection, they will see her. They will remember.*

*She slowly extends a hand towards them, trying to summon another healing spell, but it sputters and dies before it can touch them. She sighs, dejected and miserable.*

I'm sorry to have hurt you. *Her voice is quiet, trembling, trying to be gentle and fighting the urge to simply dissolve into a mess of tears.* In time, I hope I can do something that earns your forgiveness. For right now, however, I'm afraid my magic is spent. Do you think you could heal yourself? *She has a few elfroot potions in her bag, but she's not sure how much help they'll be with the amount of pain they seem to be in.*

*They do not move from their place on the floor. They do not seem to know how to answer. She frowns, brow furrowing, daring to lightly brush a few locks of hair back from their face.*

I am not your mistress, Uthvir. I am your... Your friend. Will you look at me?    

Uthvir: *They do not know this line of inquiry, and that is alarming. They do not know the right answers for it. They know when Mistress is being kind, what the shape of that looks like, but this is different. She wants them to heal themselves... that may be a trap, though, and they freeze in indecision, before her next words reach them. _Not your mistress._  Fear strikes through them. No. If she is rejecting them, then that means death. They reach forward, doing as she says and looking up, quickly, before dropping their head again.*

Please. Please forgive me, Mistress. Please do not reject me. I am sorry. I will do as you instruct, whatever you wish.

*That is all they can attempt, they decide, as they muster the reluctant well of their magical reserves, and heal themselves. Not elaborately. But it does feel good to ease some of the ache. They leave a little behind, as they cannot believe she would want them utterly without pain.... but perhaps that is part of the trick? Perhaps she will be able to tell that they have not fulfilled her command enough, and punish them for it? They waver, and risk another glance up.*

*Their mistress still seems upset.*

I am sorry. What would please you? I will do anything. Just, do not reject me. I was made to serve you, with all that I am. 

Aili: *They are begging her on their knees, clearly terrified that she is about to dole out some sort of retribution, despite the fact that _she_ is the one who has injured _them_. It is too much. Her grief comes spilling out of her in wet hiccupping sobs. She wants to hold them, to gather them in her arms. But she finds she cannot. Not when they believe she is...*

Please, don't call me that. Anything but that. I'm... I'm Aili. I'm _Aili_. Stubborn unreasonable creature. Little fox. Wondrous fool. _Bunny_. Just... Please. I'm not her.

Uthvir: *They listen to her cry, and finally manage to look up for more than a second. Her voice is shaky. She is trembling, overwrought, and they... they are... they swallow, trying to make sense of it. _Mistress. Lady. Owner._  She is Andruil, who cuts the wings from their back. The huntress, who keeps them safe from Falon'Din, but demands her payments and oaths and a tax of flesh in return. But Andruil is dark and glittering. Ai... aili... little fox...*

*Oh. They know what they must say, now. What words and titles will please their mistress. They let out a breath, and dip their head again.*

Vhenan. Forgive me.

Aili: *She gasps, tears still streaming down her face, but momentarily shocked out of despair as something frighteningly like hope steals its way into her chest. *

Y-yes! V-vhenan! That's right. That's what you used to call me. *She can't resist the urge to touch them now, reaching out to cup their face and lifting it up so she can kiss their brow. Smiling at them tremblingly.* Your heart, as you are mine. Do you remember, Vhenan? How I courted you? I put soap in your wine and itching powder in your armor and I dyed your hair pink... I caused you all sorts of trouble, but you said you loved me anyway. As I loved you. As I love you still. Can you see me now? Do you remember?

*Another sob slips out from somewhere*

Please... Please remember me.

Uthvir: *Do they remember? They think they do. Mistress is... Mistress is a huntress. Dark and deadly. She is a bright light, who tends to animals. Pets. Yes. They were her pet. She knows what they are... what... whatever they are, she knows, and she is Vhenan. Mistress. Mistress Vhenan, who keeps them as her favourite pet, and is kind to her pets. Like the halla. Or cruel, like the prey. They are like a halla, then. They played games and there was a grave, and she grew tired of them, and they found Fear, and she forgave them and they vowed to serve her. It feels as if they are jumbling things up, but it is the only answer that makes sense. She cut the wings from their back. She is Vhenan, and they must not displease her.*

I remember.

*Her hands are still framing their face. They move forward, and press a kiss to her lips. She likes when they kiss her. They remember... she asked them to. Or commanded? It is the same in the end, they suppose. She has not asked this time, but perhaps that is the game.*

 Aili: *They taste like blood, and there is still something uncertain in their manner as they kiss her, as though waiting for her to lash out at any moment. It is...not very much like the Uthvir she remembers, all smirks and swagger and clever quips. It feels like they want to placate her desires more than they actually want to be close to her, and that... She does not want to be that. But they said they remember her, so surely there must be _something_ left.*

*She pulls away, stroking their cheek and tucking a bit of hair behind their ear. She tries to smile, but it feels more pained than anything.*

Thank you. For...remembering. And...um, the kiss. I...I need to look around a little, to see if there is some way to get you safely out of here. Will you wait here with my pack? You can help yourself to anything in it, though the clothes are probably too small. There is some food and water, and the potions in the red vials should make you feel better if anything still hurts. The blue vial... probably isn't safe for you right now. I'm sorry I don't have a spare set of armor, I know you don't like having your back uncovered... *She pauses, considering, before pulling her cloak back off and draping it across their shoulders, fastening it about their neck carefully.* There. That has to be a little better, right?

*She gets to her feet, swaying slightly, as she is rather severely physically and emotionally drained, but she tries for another reassuring smile back at them before heading over to inspect the doorway they recently got blown back from. She needs to make sure that whatever spell prevented them from leaving is only over this exit, or perhaps every original doorway out of the palace, and not cast over the entire place. It would take a lot of extra work on Andruil's part to set the enchantment to make the spell to activate along the entire perimeter of the palace, and between her arrogance and her madness towards the end of her reign, she doubts she will have gone that far. Still, it would be better to know for certain before she goes around knocking down walls.*

Uthvir: *The cloak settling over their back feels nice. They let out a breath, as Mistress Vhenan begins to move around the chamber. Her steps seem faltering. Uncertain. They wonder why, as they watch her. She is... tired, perhaps. Their activities have drained her. They should run her a bath, and fetch some oils, and make up her bed. Bring her a glass of wine. She is better when she drinks. Tall stories and, and... she tells them they are pretty, and sways into their arms. Laughing and tugging ineffectually at the clasps of their armour, before they put her to bed in soft silks. _Go away, now, I am done with you._  Except... no. Her hands reach for them, and she clings. _Stay with me tonight._ *

*She is a contradictory jumble. They must understand her. Understand what she wants, or else she will get rid of them.* 

*They look to the pack she left, but though she offered, they do not touch anything. It is probably a test. They lift it up, instead. If she is tired, she will not wish to carry such things. Their own limbs tremble as they sling it across their shoulders. They glance at the heap of their wings, and wonder if she will want those, too. After a few moments, they pick them up, and carry them over to one of the racks on the side of the room. It is covered in dust, and cobwebs, but it still holds as they carefully place the wings onto it. Then they turn, and make their way silently over to where Mistress Vhenan is examining the entryway.*

*There are still stains on her cheeks. They search the pockets of the cloak, carefully, and find a small scrap of clean cloth. As she focuses on her task, they lean down beside her, and gently begin to brush some of the moisture from her face.*

I am sorry, Vhenan. This place is no good. I cannot offer you better.

Aili: *She startles slightly when they begin wiping the tears from her face, but then she smiles softly at them, catching their hand and placing a kiss against the pulse point of their wrist. She releases them and heaves a sigh, turning back to her inspection.*

It isn't your fault. You were always the only thing worth saving in this place. And I...should have found a way to take you from it sooner. Getting the rebels to attack Adnruil's stronghold directly would have been hard, and I couldn't have given them my own personal reasons for coming without telling them about... It seemed like every decision I could have made would have put you in even more danger than you were already. But I...could have come alone. I should have tried. I'm sorry.

*She glances back at them and sighs again, shaking her head with a wistful smile.*

You probably have no idea what I'm talking about. But that's alright, too. I can apologize again once you remember.

*She turns back to the doorway again, running her hands over the frame of it, feeling for the slight shift in the air that speaks of spellwork. Yes. Definitely here. She moves a bit farther down the wall, keeping her hand on it and... It is...less. Weaker. Possibly an older spell for protection of some sort, but even if it _is_ the one placed on Uthvir, it might be feeble enough away from doorways and windows that they can force their way through it.*

*She glances around the entryway. She doesn't have the power to blast part of the wall out with magic right now, and even if she did, it might send the rest of the hall caving in on them, which would be...unpleasant. She catches sight of a faint shaft of light peeking out of one of the corners of the room and slowly makes her way over to it. The wall is still intact, but only just, vines and tree roots have been eating away at it for centuries, and with a bit of shifting and stubbornness she should be able to make a hole big enough for them to get through. She kneels down and gets to work, vaguely aware of Uthvir hovering somewhere behind her like a shadow.* 

Uthvir: *They listen to her speak, and she is right. They do not entirely understand. But they think she... regrets leaving them. Leaving them behind. They remember the pain of that, chest burning, limbs pulled. Drifting. Fleeing, split and broken. Thousands of years, she said. They have been here for thousands of years, but... it is done. They follow her as she moves, careful not to intrude upon her activities. She heads towards a shaft of light, and starts pulling at the plant matter cluttering it.*

I am grateful you came back.

*They are glad for that, in the end. It is better not to be abandoned. Not to be left to death. They reach up, as she looks at them, and start pulling away the vines, too.* 

May I use a knife, Vhenan? I could clear these away more quickly with one.

Aili: *She blinks up at them, frowning slightly. Are they going to ask her permission to do everything? That is going to get...grating rather quickly. More from pain than annoyance, but still. She turns her gaze pointedly back towards her work.* 

Of course you can use a knife, if it makes things easier. I gave you one earlier, didn't I? It's yours now. You can use it for anything you might need.

*They work in silence for a while, one of them uncertain what to say and the other uncertain if they are allowed to say anything, until there is finally enough of the plant life removed from the wall for them to attack the wall directly. Bits of stone crumble away on its own without the vines support, and after a few more minutes of shoving there is a decent sized breach in the wall near the floor. Luckily, neither of them are very large, though Uthvir is still...not quite their normal shape. She sighs; one problem at a time.* 

I'll go through first, that way if something happens I can try to pull you through from the other side. Be careful when you follow me. It might...it might hurt a bit, I'm not certain. If you feel the magic trying to tug you back in there, stop moving and let me know, alright?      

Uthvir: *They quickly note the irritation in her tone. Yes. Of course. She gave them the knife; they should use it. They cut away at the plants, silently, trying to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. At last a small opening is cleared away. Mistress Vhenan gives them her instructions, and then begins to climb through. They watch, carefully. The opening is not large. Barely wide enough for her. But she makes it through, and then calls an encouragement, peering at them from the other side.*

*They look at themselves. The tattered bits of their armour, and the cloak, will likely not fit through. Reluctantly, they pull off the cloak, carefully bundling it and passing it through ahead of themselves. Their arm tingles, slightly, as they do. Then they strip off the last few broken pieces of their armour, leaving themselves in a torn shirt and old, stale leggings. They pull themselves towards the opening. The warning proved apt; it does hurt. Something more than stone scrapes across their skin, but it is not enough to deter them, as they crawl their way along until Mistress Vhenan begins pulling at their shoulders, and drags them the rest of the way free.* 

*They take a moment, once they are out. The air feels different here. Clearer. Some of the disjointed jumble of their thoughts eases, though, it's a little harder to feel their magic and Fear as well. But perhaps that is a relief in and of itself. There is a tangle of plants beneath them, and a bright, oddly calm sky overhead. They look towards their lady, and she is slumped over and resting, too. They cannot feel her relief; but it seems to be written in the lines of her body anyway, before she reaches over and starts gently patting at them. Asking if it hurts anywhere.*

I think there are some new burns on my thighs, but they are mild. It feels... strange out here, Vhenan. What happened to the sky?

Aili: *She flops bodily onto the grass once she finally has them free, and if the circumstances were a little different, she might be laughing or crowing...or screaming, she's not sure which. But she is much too tired, and Uthvir is still a bit...fragile, so she settles for a deep relieved sigh. She vaguely wonders what they would make of it if she stayed here long enough to get her strength back just so she could burn this whole place to the ground. Probably look at her like she was crazy, and she's not certain they'd be wrong.*

*They are hurt again, unsurprisingly, and she pulls open her pack to grab a health potion to try and coerce them into drinking it when their question finally hits her. _What happened to the sky?_ She looks up, into the bright blank blueness of it. It has been so long, that even she sometimes forgets that it has not always been so. Sometimes the memories of before seem so removed and impossible that she wonders if they even happened at all. It still aches though. The loss of their people, and the hole where her magic should be. She glances back at Uthvir. Perhaps not all of it is lost, though.* 

There was a war, I'm not sure how much you remember, but the Great Leaders all drank the children of the stone's magic from the earth. The blood of their living gods. It made them...different. Mad. They fought amongst each other, murdered countless numbers of their followers for every reason imaginable. And in the shadows, the Dread Wolf fought back. Organized the followers and slaves who wanted to be free of the evanuris. Protected the weak. Trained those who could be taught to fight. Took away the brands of their masters, if they asked. We...we were changing things, but it was slow. Fen'harel thought that some of the evanuris might still be reasoned with, Mythal in particular, and...perhaps she could have been. Perhaps she did agree with him, I do not know. But they killed her. Her own family killed her. And then...the Dread Wolf gave up on them, gave up on that entire world, I think. And he sealed away the Dreaming. All of it. Pushed beyond the sky to trap the would-be gods and stop them from destroying what was left of the world. Arlathan was their great achievement, their wonder, their glory. And they have it still. The whole of it was locked away with them, to serve as their prison. Thousands of people died in an instant. My parents...

*She stops, taking a deep shuddering breath and climbing back to her feet, gathering up her things while she collects herself. When she passes the cloak back to them, she manages a tired smile.*

Come on, I'd like to get some distance between us and this wretched place before nightfall. 

Uthvir: *They pick up on their lady's change in mood, as she speaks of the rebellion. Arlathan is _in_  the Dreaming? And the Dreaming is not... here. It is further away, which is why they feel so strange, perhaps. They are silent, and contemplative as they begin to move away from the ruin. From the palace. They still cannot tell... perhaps they are still dreaming, in a way, though it feels too painful for that. Visceral and heavy. Fear slides along, far away, like a shark beneath a thick curtain of ice. A shadow below their feet, as they walk, and the air stays silent, and the sky remains clear. Only one colour. Only a few clouds, except on the distant horizon, where they are darker and thicker. The plants and trees surrounding them look strange, too. The trunks all brown, and small. The wilds thick, but... not in the same way.*

*The Wolf. They remember hearing of that, yes. The wolf's rebellion. And Fear knows, they think. It all fell apart. Whatever he tried to do, however he tried to reshape the world... it was less a reshaping than some desperate gambit. Survival. Uthvir understands that. They glance at their lady, though, and they think... she loved her parents. Yes. She did. In their fragmented perceptions they cannot quite recall the figures, but though there was distance between them, they know she held them in high regard.*

*Could Fear reach them in Arlathan? In the Dreaming?*

*The very notion registers such a fervent, negative response from themselves that they nearly double over with it. Their steps stall, and they glance over to see if the slip up has been noted; but to their relief, their lady is focused on the path, right now, her gaze distant. Lost to recesses that they know she must have, and yet, that seem somehow... incongruous to her. Or their perception of her. Or... part of it.*

*They reach out, almost unthinkingly, and stop themselves just shy of her shoulder. She turns towards them, then, and they freeze. Caught with their hand still outstretched.* 

Aili: *She senses their proximity and turns. They are standing with their hand stretched out towards her, and a fleeting look of panic flashes across their face. Ah. Perhaps she has been a little colder than she should have been. It just seems like everything that has happened today has been set on picking at the scabs of old wounds, scratching until she is raw and bleeding. That isn't their fault though. She tries for a smile.* 

Did you need something, Vhenan? Are you tired? I think I remember a stream nearby, so we can stop here for tonight if you want to. It's probably a good idea to set up camp a little early anyhow, with those storm clouds moving up from the east like that. And...I'm...sorry if it seemed like I was brushing you off before. It can be…hard to talk about the past sometimes. But I promised that you could ask me anything you wanted to, and to that I hold. I wasn't present for all of it, but I will do my best to tell you what I can.

Uthvir: *They debate, internally, on how to respond to this. There is a woeful lack of instruction, and every instinct they have tells them that this means it is a trap. But what is the trick? What answer does she want them to give? She is worn and tired, and likely in need of respite, but she can hardly stand to appear weak. The answer comes to them, then; it is their duty to take on the appearance of weakness, in that case. That will not be difficult, they think.* 

I have taken no offence. Your treatment of me has been most courteous and merciful. But I would appreciate stopping. I fear I cannot keep pace with you. Would you like to bathe, at the river? 

*They look down at themselves, and their tattered clothing. Blood and dust and muck still stains much of what they are wearing, and runs in streaks across the visible segments of their skin.*

I should probably clean myself, if nothing else. I am not fit to be seen in your company.

Aili: *She gives a snort of wry amusement.*

I don't think we need to worry about running into anyone out here, and I hardly look any better than you do. *She considers* My clothes are a bit more intact, I suppose. We'll have to see what we can do about that. We'll get you some new ones when we can, but you can't just wander around in clothing that looks like it's only being held on by dirt and wishes. It probably isn't comfortable, among other things. Or sanitary.

*She looks down at herself, taking in the dust and blood and bits of webbing still clinging to her outfit.*

I suppose we could both use a bath.  

*She leads them back to the stream she had passed the day before, and sets down her pack to begin the process of hunting for her wayward bar of soap. She vaguely wishes she had the strength to throw up a few wards, but she supposes that she'll just have to settle for staying alert and keeping her spirit blade close at hand. Her gaze slides over to Uthvir, who is, as they have been for the last few hours, watching her in silence, with an air of someone who is trying to solve a riddle when they've forgotten half the words to it. And she suddenly recalls that, technically, they are no longer lovers, no matter how she might feel, and Uthvir is not only incredibly guarded about their naked figure, but apparently seems to think she is some strange version of Andruil, and...she's not sure what sort of response forcing them to strip in the same place will elicit. She's not sure she wants to.*  

Did you...um. Did you want to take turns bathing? I can set up camp while you wash, if you like. I won't go far, I promise. I'll still be able to hear you if you need me. *She comes across a loose fitting shirt she tends to sleep in and pulls it out and offers it to them.* Here. It might be a bit short, especially in the arms, but at least it’s in one piece and not... not covered in...  *She bites her lip and her eyes dart away guiltily.*

I'll...start building a fire.

Uthvir: *They stare at the shirt, uncomprehendingly for a moment, before carefully accepting it from her.*

I... thought we were going to bathe?

*What is the test now, they wonder? Should they offer to light the fire and set up the camp instead? Or would that just seem defiant? They consider, swiftly. She is tired, and dirty, and so are they, but she is suggesting they take turns. They look at themselves again, and suppose that they do possess a particular amount of filth on their person. But it is a river.*

If you stay upstream of me, you can avoid contact with any of my... uncleanliness.

*They reach up, and begin removing the last scraps of their clothing. There are no wards in this area. Their lady seems too tired to attempt them, and so they suppose it falls to them. But when they raise a hand to begin casting, the magic comes even more sluggishly than usual. They frown, and struggle with it for a moment, before pulling out the knife again. Blood it is, then. They slice open a shallow cut on their forearm, and begin casting that way instead. It will only be rudimentary in service, but better than nothing.* 

Aili: *She squawks in slight alarm when they cut their arm and being creating wards, rushing to their side and pulling their arm to her as soon as they have finished casting.*

Don't cut yourself when you're covered in muck! You could get an infection! *Uthvir blinks at her in confusion, and she recalls their lack of knowledge about such things.* It...the dirt could make the cut worse. Things could get into your blood and... sort of like poison? It hurts and takes longer to heal.

*She focuses on the cut, at least it's a shallow one, wards don't require as much power as some of the other spells they could have cast for protection. She calls her magic to heal them, and it strains against her, weak and sputtering, overspent. A spark still comes to her though, enough for this. Their skin glows briefly and for half an instant she almost thinks she feels that low cord of connection hum between them, but she shakes it away as wishful thinking.*

*Uthvir is still looking at her with thinly veiled apprehension, clearly expecting a punishment for this misstep. She smiles at them, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible, and lifts their forearm to place a kiss where the wound just was, ignoring dirt and slime and whatever else may be smeared on them.*

There, good as new. You...you aren't in trouble. You didn't know. I'm not mad, I promise. But...you should also be aware that blood magic...if we meet anyone else, they would likely attack you for using it. It's generally considered dangerous and associated with demons. People can be very superstitious about these things.

*Her eyes somehow trail to their torso and linger, they don't look like she found them hacked to pieces in a bunch of boxes earlier today. They look like Uthvir. Mostly. It is strange to see them even partially naked in a setting that doesn't involve one of their bedrooms at Andruil's palace and several locked doors. She almost reaches out. Almost places her hand to their chest to feel their beating heart beneath her palm and remind herself that they are real and not some very elaborate delusion formed from old memories and the oppressive air of the ruin they just escaped.*

*Instead she turns back to her bag and scoops up the bar of soap and hands it to them.*

 For your bath. Take your time. It's not quite as good as your private bathroom, I'm sure, but it's got to feel nice to get clean after so long. I don't mind waiting, I'm used to feeling a bit grimy, to be honest.

Uthvir: *They watch as Aili stares at them, and it makes something in them twist. Mingled longing and apprehension. She is not displeased with their misstep, however. Though it is difficult to tell from the quiet air, nothing in her demeanour betrays even a hint of steel, and she goes so far as to kiss their filthy arm. Realisation slowly sneaks in. Ah. They are to get thoroughly clean, then, and perhaps help her with her own cleaning afterwards?*

I will bathe well, then.

*She leaves them, though she does not go very far. They slide into the river water. It is cold, of course; warming it seems to take more energy than they like, and the effects do not last, anyway, as the current steals the warmed water away, and their ambient energy does not seem to take hold as it should. But they can make do with the cold. They scrub away the blood and grime and detritus of their long sleep, as the water sluices over them. The soap is plain but serviceable. Some of the grime has had a long time to cake onto them, however, and in places they must use river stones and their fingernails and even one handy scrap of a tree branch to get themselves clean, until they are flushed and shivering when they emerge again. They wrap themselves in the loose shirt that their lady gave to them. It is very soft, and it smells like...*

_*Arms and legs tangled, sheets warm and wrapped around them, as she clutches their chest in her sleep. Her face tucked up against their chin, her breaths steady and even. Lost to sleep. Safe for the moment, as the morning light barely begins to show. There is drool on their shoulder and one of her knees digging into their thigh, and they do not want to move.*_

*They swallow at the sudden, visceral rush of thought, and are left standing for a moment; dazed by the shirt. When their lady comes to question them, they stare at her for a long moment, before regaining their composure.*

Shall I help you bathe?

Aili: *Uthvir is wearing her sleep shirt...and apparently nothing else. Which is...honestly not very fair under the given circumstances. She can feel the blood rushing to her face as her eyes dart around, fervently hoping that they didn't just decide to throw their old leggings away, because she doesn't know how she's going to explain it to anyone else she meets if she's being followed around by a particularly stabby and confused-looking elf with no trousers on.*

*She stares pointedly down at her feet, amazed that she can still get this flustered, as old as she is, and twists her fingers together. She _wants_ to look at them, of course, among other things, but she also wants their trust back and...she wants them to want _her_. And seeing as they have her confused with a sadistic tyrannical overlord, that seems...unlikely. Somewhere in the jumble of her mind, a little voice reminds her that they had asked her a question; _Shall I help you bathe?*_

N-no. I mean, you...don't have to do that. It's...it's probably faster if I do it myself. And anyway, you look cold. I mean, I assume that you are, what with the...water and... Um. I made a fire. If you...uh, want to be less cold and... I'm just going to...step over here and change out of these clothes so I can...um. Yes.

*She moves a little bit away from them, cheeks burning, turning her back to them as she begins to fumble with the laces and buckles of her armor. Death by humiliation is a slow and painful process, but she thinks she may be well on her way. She has been a spy, but she was good at it because people were always willing to overlook her. But not Uthvir. Under close scrutiny, her emotions have always been clear, heart on her sleeve, feelings dancing through the open air. She does not want to pressure them into anything, but she doesn't know how to pretend she does not love them either. And she isn't certain that is something she wants to keep from them in the first place. Because it is theirs, and they never seemed to have enough of it.* 

Uthvir: *They sit by the fire, and unabashedly watch their lady as she disrobes, and ventures into the water. She cleans herself swiftly, and washes her clothes as she does in what seems to be a matter of habit, and then stares at her wet clothes and at Uthvir for a moment with what seems to be momentary horror. They realize, gradually, that her clothes are wet, and she does not have anything else to wear. The river is cold. Without a thought, they lift the nightshirt back over their head, and make their way towards her.*

*It takes some care to warm the fabric, but they do. She begins to protest, at first, and they stop; suddenly uncertain. How have they misstepped? They try and divine it, but then their lady seems to backpedal, and after a few awkward moments, they are left with both of them standing naked on the river bank; as the warm fire crackles away behind them, and Uthvir wonders what impulse to follow or ignore, and their lady seems... lost.*

*It feels like the only thing to do, then, is follow the loudest inclination in them. They take a step forward, and drop the warm nightshirt over top of their lady. Their small, golden lady. She is so close, and it feels right, to drop their arms around her as they settle the fabric over her. To pull her near, wordlessly, and then draw her back towards the fire.*

*She looks at them, as they settle down beside it again. They do not know what to make of her look. They will need supplies, though. More things. To keep warm. To eat. To bed down on. Uthvir will need better weapons, to hunt with. To bring her tributes by.*

I did promise.

*The words escape them, in a murmur. They are not even certain _what_  they promised. But they are sure that they promised it to her.* 

Aili: *She stares at them with unconcealed longing, fisting her hands in the hem of her sleep shirt. She's half tempted to take it right back off and give it to them, but she's hesitant to force them into doing anything. Even when she knows it would make them more at ease. She wants them to have initiative, to approach her without fear, to...to touch her more, if they want to. *

*Uthvir's skin almost seems to glow in the firelight, as though they themselves are made of liquid flame, and they look...more like themselves. Sharp and smooth and golden. Beautiful and dangerous and strong. They would give her everything they had without question, be it shirts or anything else, because they think she owns them. And she supposes most people would see the advantage in that, but all she wants is to keep them safe. She has failed up until now, but she won't anymore. Not ever again.*

*There are a dozen other things she should be doing, digging out the food from her pack and getting out her thin little bedroll so they can argue about who is actually going to end up sleeping on it, and possibly making up her cloak into an improvised lean-to in case it rains later, but she feels paralyzed. As if she expects them vanish if she turns away, even for an instant, and she'll be alone again, with nothing to hope for except the survival of whatever new catastrophe the Dread Wolf will pull down on their heads. She had not realized how isolated she had felt before now, how exhausting it had become just to get up and keep trying for one more day.*

...I missed you. *Her voice comes out as nearly a whisper, shaking.* When you think you've lost someone forever, you...you find a way to piece your life together around the hole they left. You look for the means of moving on, of surviving. And I knew...you wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life wallowing in grief, and I haven't. I've lived. I found new purpose, and new friends, and I've loved people but... I never forgot you. Not for a day. Not for an instant. You are my... my first and truest... my...

*She sighs, still not certain how to phrase it in a way that doesn't sound like she's fishing for a response.*

 You said that you are mine, and to that I say that _I_ am _yours_. As I have ever been. You may not believe me now, but you will.

*She snags her cloak, it's not as soft or as clean as her shirt, but at least it's something, and pulls it carefully over their shoulders.*

Because this time, I'm going to protect you.   

Uthvir: * _This time, I am going to protect you,_ she says. They stare at her, and the words strike a strange chord through them. They were the one who failed in the end. She died, because they were not there. They could not protect her. She was killed by... by herself? No. By the other. Two oaths, they made. Light and shadow bleed together, and they wonder at the duel sides of this coin, as she kneels in front of them in a battered shirt. The damp strands of her hair curling around her face. Fear promised they could belong to one another, too. Two half-made broken things, discarded, but together they could be more.*

*They reach up. Their fingers are trembling, just slightly, and they have begun to feel nauseous. Poisoned. She fed them poison, and tore them apart, and locked them away. She killed their heart and stilled their voice. Cut their wings and chained them, and then left. Not even strong enough to be the absolute power she wished to be. But now their heart is back, and their body is back. The world is strange, and still stifling. Fear is far away. Nothing makes sense, but they know the colour of her eyes. The tremble in her voice, as she promises them things they want to believe.*

*At the brush of their hand to her cheek, a tear slips down it. Touch. Touch is important, to bright hearts. They cup her cheek more surely, and pull her closer, and she comes easily. Knives gone. No more sharp edges, as they pull her to them, and wrap the cloak around them both. They bury their nose into her hair, and close their eyes. The firelight is starting to hurt them. Their nerves are shuddering, tingling, but holding her close helps, and she does not reprimand them for it. She holds them back. Approving. They have made the right move. Some warm anchor blooms between them, and it soothes. All the jarring, deep, rent-open places in them feel a little less ragged. It makes it difficult to think, but thinking has not seemed to avail them much so far.*

*The world stills, for a time, beside the fire. Vhenan rests in their arms, and sings to them. Familiar songs, as they hold her close. But gradually, they begin to grow cold. The fire doesn't wane. Nor does the warmth of their bodies. They shiver, and slide their hands beneath her shirt, and bury their nose in her hair. Seeking warmth, but it does not seem to work, as beads of sweat begin to track down their temples. As the burning in their veins starts to go dull, and they feel a sinking unease. A disquieting _blank,_  as if whatever is leaving them is stripping away all of their vitality along with it. The poison Andruil fed them brought strength, but the more one took, the more it changed them. Uthvir was nearly drowned in it, by the end; and their body is no longer inert. It has been hours. Hours of magic, and disjointed spells, and wards burning through them. Losing blood and moving, struggling, trying to reach through the wolf's ill-thought barrier.*

*And now they are sinking. Slowly but surely. They swallow against a dry throat, and gentle fingers brush across their temple.*

Vhenan. Do not go. Please, please do not go...

*The world wavers. Disoriented. Memories and dreams, perceptions and reality cracking like a dropped mirror. Fear shrieks, and they close their arms around their heart, and sink their teeth into the meat of their own forearm to keep from screaming.*

Aili: *It seems almost like a dream to be in their arms again. To be permitted to touch and hold them. She is so tired after the trials of the day, but she doesn't want to sleep, to fall into the Dreaming and wake to find them gone. Perhaps she should have kept her distance, but they don't seem particularly apprehensive at the close contact, and if this is something they truly want, she would be the last person in the world who would deny them.*

*She sings to them. The old songs, happy and mournful, and occasionally humorous. Songs her mother used to sing. Lullabies. It has been a long time since she last sang them. ...It has been a long time since she had anyone to sing them to. Uthvir doesn't seem to mind. In fact, they pull her closer, pressing their face to her and running their hands up the back of her shirt. She reciprocates gently, with only the softest brushes of fingers. And that's when she notices that they are shivering.*

*It is not the shudder of someone being overwhelmed by touch, it is uncontrollable shaking from their very bones. There is sweat running down their face and their skin feels clammy. Something of a low whine rumbles up from their chest and they beg her not to leave them. Their arms tighten around her to the point where it is nearly crushing. Painful. She cannot see what they are doing, but they shift, and she feels them fighting back a scream, the sound of it muffled in her ears, as though they've shoved something into their mouth to halt it. She embraces them in return, firm but still cautious of their fresh scars, pressing herself into them as much as she can.*

I won't leave you. What's wrong? What's hurting you? I promise, I'm staying right here, for as long as you want me to.

*She's still not back to her full strength yet, but she's had some time to rest, and her magic comes to her much more easily when she calls it, igniting her hands with a healing spell, sinking it into their flesh slowly, seeking new injuries and old wounds.*  

Uthvir: *They have no hope of articulating it. Their teeth dig into their forearm, and their blood tastes strange upon their tongue. Healing magic presses into them. Easing some of the ache, as it searches for the cause of their distress. Their heart thuds in an echo of the connection between them. That tether. _Perilous_ , they think it is. But it is there, and they hold fast to it until their lady breathes in sharply. Without the context of emotions in the air, however, they can scarcely parse whether her intake of breath is one of shock, revelation, or annoyance. They do not think they could withstand punishment right now. A few moments longer, and they can wrench their senses up enough to pull their mouth from their forearm.*

*They keep their grip on her, though. Her hands push at them, gently, and she is saying something. But they can only register that she is trying to move away, and they feel as if they will die if she does. As if she is their only port on this storm, and the burning void spreading through them will swallow them whole without her.*

Poison. The poison is going, and it is taking me with it.

Aili: *She gasps as the thrum of their connection blooms more brightly between them, almost seeming to yank at her, and...she can feel their heart beating. Not just the palpitation through flesh and cloth, but the actual frantic hammering of it as though it were her own. A burning sensation in their arm. And, perhaps, just a taste of their fear as well. Distant and impossible, but...so many impossible things have happened to her in the last few hours that she's ready to believe almost anything.*

*She tries to get them to lie down. To let her go just long enough to heal their arm properly and possibly snag an elfroot potion out of her bag. But they will have none of it. No matter how gently she cajoles or reassures them that she will come right back, they cling to her and shudder.*

* _The poison is going, and it is taking me with it._ Posion? ...The lyrium? Her thoughts momentarily turn to the little vial in her bag, expensive, and diluted to the point where it likely wouldn't be much of a reprieve... But she shakes the thought away. Feeding them more of it would only make things worse in the long run. She's kept her distance from Templars, but she's heard enough about what happens to them when they've been taking their little drafts long enough, and even seen it once or twice. It certainly clarifies a lot of Uthvir's troubles with their memory. But an elf from before the Veil would have a much greater resistance to it than a human, she suspects, and Uthvir in particular seemed to have a fairly high tolerance for _everything_... What did Andruil _do_ to them? And for how long?*

It...it isn't taking you anywhere. I've got you, Vhenan. You're right here with me, and that's where I'm keeping you. You're going through some withdrawal, but you can beat it. I know it must be awful, but it will pass, I promise.

*She manages to untangle one of her arms enough to move a hand to their temple, summoning a spell for sleep and making soothing noises at them all the while.*

Shh, you rest now. You'll feel better once you've gotten some sleep. I'm going to be right here when you wake up, you'll see.

*She begins to hum, and they thrash a bit, still clutching at her in a panic, but eventually their eyelids droop and they sag into her. She carefully maneuvers them to the ground, uncertain of how long her spell will work on them, as Uthvir has never been a particularly deep sleeper, but at least she has a bit of time to gather supplies to make them both a bit more comfortable.*

*She heals the bite on their arm before wrapping the cloak around them more securely, gets her bedroll out of her bag, and somehow, miraculously, gets them to shift at least partially onto it. She moves her pack closer to where they are sleeping, in case they need food or water when they wake, and fishes her lone lyrium potion out of it. No need to keep temptation close at hand. She dumps it into the river, cleaning the vial in case she needs it for something else, and dipping a cloth into the cool water for Uthvir's forehead.*

*She stays beside them through most of the night, soothing them with soft words and music as they twist fretfully in their sleep, and wiping the sweat from their brow. Eventually though, her own exhaustion catches up with her, and she slumps over beside them on the ground.*


	4. Not All Who Wander are Lost

Uthvir: *They fall into the screaming darkness of the Dreaming. The Not-Dreaming, as it is now. Fear is waiting for them, as their lady coaxes them into sleep. Dark, spindly arms that snatch their awareness against the tidal fog of confusion, and all at once, some sense of... not quite _normalcy,_  but of an equilibrium they are more accustomed to returns. They are dark and vast, and the sundered border between them is no longer so disorienting. Fear - the Nightmare - is old, now. So is Uthvir, but they have not truly lived that time. They have slept, while Fear waited in the darkness. Orchestrated their release.*

*Why? The two of them have their contract, their connection, but Uthvir would never expect Fear to risk itself on their broken and poisoned remains. Would it not have been better to abandon them? Ah, but no. The Veil is coming down. Andruil will be returning, and their connection still _exists,_  whatever the shape of either of them. She would wish to wake her pet, and Fear would be drawn back, then. And the Dreaming, as decimated as it has been by the wolf's Veil, is not what it was. It is a half-life, a hazy fever dream more than a bounteous landscape. As if Falon'Din had graced all things with his decimating touch.*

*Fear knows more of the poison, as well. And of their lady. Of Aili, who is their heart. Who is not dead, it seems. Uthvir recalls her better, now, with Fear to distinguish more of their memories and more of the strange connections that lyrium and the Veil and their binding have wrought and ruined. They have woken on the cusp of another calamity; but they should not have doubted the tenacity they first saw in her, it seems. She has survived. So long.*

*Both of them can admire that.*

*Aili does not find them in the Dreaming, though. They are relieved and concerned all at once; but when they finally wake, it is to fevered disorientation, again. The thoughts behind the Veil more or less stay with Fear, and Uthvir struggles. Sucking in breath through shaky lungs, as their limbs tremble. They are cold, and hot, and they feel a surge of fruitless aggression, as their temples pound. It is dark out. There is a warm figure beside them. Anchoring, steady, and they reach for her. Pulling her closer and pinning her down beneath them, as brightness seeps in through their touch. She gasps as she wakes, and presses a palm against their chest. But then she seems to change her mind, and winds her arms around them instead. Whispering things until they fall into the Dreaming once more.*

*The next time they wake, it is morning, and they feel sick beyond measure. But their lady says they must move; and so they do.*

Aili: *She dreams of Glory. An old dream of shackles and pain, of hands at their throat and casually broken limbs. Crying in the dark. Lost and alone and wishing for their heart to return, for the slightest reprieve it may bring. But then it takes a new turn, and they are bound to an alter, a glowing poison poured own their throat, as their arms and legs are rent from their body one by one and locked away in boxes. There is a golden gleam, and at first she takes it for Andruil's eyes. There is a weight pressing down on her and she feels confined, trapped, shut into a tiny crate, still alive, but floundering to breathe. She _gasps_ -*

*-and wakes, pushing at whatever has tried to capture her in her sleep... Only to find that Uthvir has woken up and rolled onto her, still desperate to have her in their arms, which is such a reversal of how they used to sleep together that it twists something in her sharply. Almost as sharp as the brightness of the connection flaring between them. She can feel them tugging at it, and it is...a strange sensation. Not quite painful, but...intense. Especially for this muted version of the world with its quieter magic. She has grown accustomed to the silence. To feeling alone.

*A moment or two gives her enough of her senses back to wrap them in her arms, stroking at their hair and murmuring affection at them until they seem to drift back to sleep. She is less eager to return to the Fade herself, and only dozes in short bursts until morning.

*She does not want to wake them, but they can hardly stay here forever. And they have rather effectively pinned her to the ground. She shakes them gently, asking them to at least move enough to let _her_ up, and they groan in protest, but stagger to their feet regardless, sallow skinned and groggy, struggling to obey. She gets them to drink some water, and eat a bit of the dried venison from her pack, though she's not certain they can keep it down. She does another sweep with her healing spell, and it seems to help with the pounding headache they've acquired, at the very least. She changes back into her normal clothes and her armor, and Uthvir has to make do with her sleep shirt, a moldering pair of leggings, and her cloak.*

*She frowns. The nearest village she knows of is nearly three weeks away on foot, and she doesn't have much in the way of coin to begin with. Humans are always looking to shaft a knife-ear, especially one with 'heathen tattoos'. Besides which, taking Uthvir into any sort of civilization in their present state is practically begging to get chased down by Templars and burned at the stake.*

*Their pace is slow, owing to Uthvir's frequent bouts of dizziness and nausea, which they continually try to hide from her, and she obligingly pretends not to notice, and as they trudge along, she takes the opportunity to turn over the problem of their lack of supplies. She cannot leave them long enough to enter a city without them. She is not even sure how she is going to find the time to hunt for game with the level of care they seem to require at present, but even though she is fairly sure she can think of some way to feed them, she doesn't exactly have the supplies on hand to sew them a new outfit or craft them a durable weapon.

*And then, as though some ancient deity has finally decided to take pity on them, she catches the distant scent of campfire smoke, and begins to spot signs of wide wagons having trampled town the underbrush, and several sets of hoof prints that she would recognize in her sleep. _Halla_. There is a Dalish clan nearby.*        

*She signals Uthvir to halt, which they seem to do almost gratefully, and she crouches down next to them near the base of a tree.

I think there is a group of elves not far from here. *She speaks in a low voice, fairly certain she would know if one of the clan sentries was around, but it is better to be cautious.* They are... They were born after Fen'Harel's Veil. They do not remember Arlathan, and Elvhenan is a hazy dream. They keep the names of the Evanuris as their gods. I might be able to trade with them to get you some equipment, but we need to be very careful, and I need you to do exactly as I say. I will tell them you are sick, which is true enough, but they may ask you to stay outside the camp. Don't raise a fuss, just find someplace safe nearby and I'll come get you as soon as I can. If they let you in, stay beside me and do not try to speak to them. The old tongue is all but dead, and it will only lead to more questions. Keep your hood up and your hands inside your cloak if you can, and do _not_ use magic. The Veil has made it a rare talent; these elves are likely more accepting than most people we'll run into, but many people are scared of it.

*She studies their face for a sign of confirmation that they have understood what she has told them, but mostly they just look...miserable. She heaves a sigh, defeated, and brushes a bit of their hair back from their face.*

Would you rather just wait here for me? 

Uthvir: *They do their best, to keep pace. To not show weakness. The clothes are flimsy, but the cloak helps. Still, it all lacks _weight,_  and there are moments when they feel like the world's heaviness is trying to compensate. They are sluggish, and flushed, and nauseous. They know they do not disguise it completely, but they do well enough that Vhenan does not comment. Does not chide, or complain of them slowing her down.*

*When they stop, though, it is a relief. There is nothing out here, they are beginning to believe. They are in the far wilds of some remote region; some foggy impulse in them says to find an outpost, but they are equally almost certain that there are none of those, either. But maybe that is because there is no one. No one but the two of them, anymore. _When the world is dust and ash, the only two beings left in all creation will be you and I._  They cannot recall who said that to them. The whispers are strange and incoherent, and the world refocuses only slightly when they realize that Vhenan is looking at them.*

*They listen, as she explains. Elves. Other elves. How terrifying; Uthvir does not even have a weapon better than the little knife at their side. But at the prospect of being left behind, they nearly panic. They work their way swiftly back onto their feet.*

No. No, I can come. Do not leave me. Please. I will do whatever you say, I swear it. I will not speak a word without your leave. I will not even look at them, if you do not wish it.

*If she goes, they think, she will never come back. She will die, or be gone, or take the opportunity to rid herself of them. They sway on their feet, and she reaches out and steadies them. Her voice is soothing as she assures them that she is not 'leaving them', she would come back for them no matter what. But she makes no argument of it; only takes their hand, as their steps seem unsteady, and guides them through what seems to be a rough trail. They might take it for an animal path, except there are signs of larger shapes passing through. And then the trees thin, and they have only just begun to glimpse signs of elf-made shapes between them when a pair of scouts drop into their path; simply clad and hard-faced, marked by mismatched vallaslin. One with a design that Uthvir does not know.*

*They drop their gaze, listening instead for any sounds of threatening moves, as Vhenan speaks with them. She uses words that are largely unfamiliar to Uthvir; peppered with others that they _do_  recognize, but it paints only a partial picture of the conversation. Greetings. Apologies. Beseeching. As the conversation goes on, it becomes increasingly apparent by her tone, however, that she is displeased with its direction.*

Aili: *The hunters are young. The one with the overly simplified markings for Sylaise in particular looks as though she cannot be more than sixteen, and Aili gets the distinct feeling that if she wasn't so preoccupied with scowling at her, she'd be picking at the fresh ink over her left eye. Needless to say, the pair of them are much more interested in attempting to intimidate her than they are in listening to anything she has to say. Her dealings with the Dalish are generally peaceable. She bears the marks of their false gods and seems unassuming enough to be let into the camp for an evening or two. Some wayward little hunter separated from her clan, a bit strange, but certainly not a threat. Even the more suspicious clans will usually welcome her after the right amount of posturing.*

*The problem is, as she feared, with Uthvir. There are several young children and frail elders in the clan, and the hunters insist that not only can her companion not enter the camp for fear of contaminating someone, but Aili, as a person who has been around the disease long enough to potentially be carrying it as well, is also apparently unwelcome. She tries every avenue of persuasion she can think of, assuring them that her friend is not contagious, that she is perfectly healthy, appealing to their shared heritage, and indulging them in the sad tale of how she and Uthvir had become separated from their own clan and have been barely surviving for months out in the wilderness, but they will not be moved. Left with no other recourse, she plays her final bargaining chip.*  

We found a ruin. A great structure built to honor the huntress. A temple, perhaps. Surely the knowledge that must lie in such a place must be worth something to you. Let me speak with your Keeper, and they can decide if we are worth trading with or not.

*They still don't seem completely sold on the idea until she pulls out her necklace as proof. As simple as it is, it is also very clearly of old elven make, and the worn enchantment Uthvir had the craftsman place on it still lingers in the air around it. The one marked for Sylaise still doesn't look all that convinced, but her companion is at least sure enough of their Keeper's interest in hearing about such a rare find, that they finally relent, and allow them to pass into the camp, so long as they are escorted by guards, and do not touch anyone or anything along the way.*

*She returns to Uthvir, making a show of taking them by the arm to help them walk and explaining in hushed tones most of the conversation she just had.

Stay close to me, alright? If we get as far as trading things and you see something you think you need, just squeeze my hand to get my attention and then point it out to me quietly and I'll see what I can do

*The keeper is an elderly man with a modified version of Mythal's vallaslin in rich olive green scrawled across his brow. Despite the fact that he is likely young enough that he has yet to see the turn of a century, there is still a certain air of dignity about him that she can admire. That strange Dalish pride that she finds both intriguing and vaguely sad.

*He is much more accommodating than his hunters, though she suspects his greeting would be notably less kind if her face was bare, no matter what treasures she had to share with them. She tries not convey her reluctance in telling them of the palace ruins, trying to make the place sound impressive, while also warning them emphatically about dark magics and traps. The Keeper seems thoughtful, though clearly interested in her discovery, and assures her with a slightly dismissive air that an excavation will not be attempted without the proper safety precautions. At first he tries to talk them into staying somewhere in the vicinity of the camp while they send scouts to the location she has described, to make sure her information is good before offering her any sort of compensation for it, but she refuses flatly. They are still looking for their own clan and, as grand as it was, Andruil's 'Temple' was a frightful place, and neither she nor her companion have any interest in staying anywhere near it.

*After almost an hour of haggling about it, they are finally taken to the main artisan of the clan, who happens to be a surprisingly soft shaped woman with June's markings scrawled boldly across her broad, smiling face. They will still have to pay for what they need, of course, but everything will be at a fairly reduced price.

*More health potions are the first order of business, as Aili gets the distinct impression that Uthvir will be feeling under the weather for some time to come, and she would wear herself ragged if she relied on nothing but her own magic to keep them on their feet. She gets them their own pack, some fresh leggings and underthings, and two new tunics that look to be roughly their size. Uthvir quietly guides her attention to a mage's staff, tipped with a cruel-looking point, which is handed over to them with surprisingly little fuss, as apparently it was made by an apprentice who had not stopped to consider that a mage of the clan would not need a spear, and a hunter would not need to channel magic.*

*The armor is trickier. Naturally, the best option would be to have something made for them, but they do not have the time or the coin for such extravagance. Boiled leather vambraces and shin guards are easy enough, though likely not as sturdy as Uthvir might wish. The real issue is the breastplate. She knows they will never feel completely at ease without something firm covering their back, and the only one readily available that would be somewhat close to fitting them is fairly simple, but it is also forged of iron bark. And quite clearly out of her price range.*

*She stares at the piece of armor for a long moment, and then sighs down at the few remaining coins in her hand. Then, she slowly reaches up and undoes the clasp of her necklace, and holds it in her palm, memorizing the weight and feel of it, thinking back to the day they had brought her the spider fang and asked what she wanted made from it. The first time they claimed her as their heart. She runs her thumb wistfully over the little halla at its center before glancing back at Uthvir, who looks confused and mildly terrified, but is also watching her intently. Perhaps waiting to see just exactly what they are worth to her.*

*She presses one last kiss to the precious bauble, before laying it out on the table with the rest of her money, stubbornly ignoring the painful lurching of her heart.*

*The woman behind the stall looks down at her offering, likely able to see its value at a glance, before her eyes move back up to Aili's face, taking in her expression. She asks her where she got it from, sounding curious, if not openly sympathetic.*

It...was a present. *Aili explains, eyes shifting back towards Uthvir of their own accord.* From someone dear to my heart. It...cost them a lot, to be able to give it to me.

*The artisan nods in understanding, and then, startlingly, asks how long the two of them have been married. The question catches Aili so off guard that she actually laughs, sharp and slightly aching, before shaking her head at her and turning her focus to a swath of soft fabric, likely wool, with an air of one who desperately wants to change the subject. Her chosen distraction would make a decent sash or scarf, she thinks, and it is seemingly wide enough that they could make it into a cowl as well. It is also a blazing crimson. But she has nothing else to barter with.*

*The woman takes note of her gaze, and asks if she wants to buy something else, even knowing she likely cannot give her anything more. When Aili confirms this, the Dalish woman nods again, and begins bustling around, handing Aili some of the larger things she bought and packing the rest of it into the bag she got for Uthvir's supplies.*       

*They are rather firmly ushered back outside of the campgrounds shortly after that, with hardly so much as a farewell. She finds she is not terribly sad to go, though she does pause for a minute or two to stare wistfully back at the group of halla milling about the center of the encampment. The sight of them brings back the thought of her pendant, and she tries not to imagine what new fate it might have now.*

*Uthvir has been dutifully silent throughout this process, and can't seem to find the strength to say much even when she tries to start a conversation. They do not make it very far before she decides to stop and let them rest, though the reason she gives them is that they need to parcel out their new acquisitions. She helps them take off their pack and opens it up with the intention of getting them into their new, better fitting clothing and armor, and ends up blinking down at the contents in surprise.*

*The scarlet fabric she had admired is folded neatly at the top of the bag. She pulls it out, wonder written across her face, as she runs her hands over it. Then she turns to Uthvir with a smile, gently draping it around their neck, not catching sight of the familiar white shape that falls from its folds and lands softly in their lap.*

Uthvir: *These elves are strange. So few seem to have the same vallaslin; and there are so many designs. Modifications, and reworkings. They stay close to Vhenan as they walk through the campsite. The aravels are small, and dull in colour. As if made to look as unremarkable as possible from a distance. There are children, to their shock - they think they spy at least a half dozen of them, and young elves with unmarked faces who are probably still growing, too. The adults keep them well away, but still, it is hard for them not to stare at so many. So many children.*

*They try and keep what focus they can on the risks, though. The dangers. Strangers moving close, exchanging more odd words with Vhenan. Weapons, and the thought of weapons has them noting the bladed staff propped up next to what seems to be a trade cart; though they are distracted from it again as they peer at more of the elves. Many of which seem sickly. Stooped, and with odd texturing to their skin. One elf in particular sits with several of the little ones around them. They look like little more than skin and bones, with sagging wrinkles riddling their face; distorting the lines of their markings, and Uthvir wonders if it is painful. This plague. Have they all been poisoned?*

*They do not ask. Vhenan has bid them hold their tongue, and so they shall. They bring her attention to the bladed staff again, though, when she begins bartering for goods. A weapon. With a weapon they can fight; they can hunt. Their magic is so far away, but it has always been occasionally untrustworthy. Blades are steadier, sometimes. By the time Vhenan has finished bartering, however, they can barely spare any focus for tasks more complex than staying upright. Their head feels thick, and their temples are throbbing again. As if someone has jabbed needles through them. It makes them think of the days they try least to remember. Long, chilling periods of time when they were strapped down at a table, as bright eyes narrowed at them...*

*They leave the camp. Uthvir is glad to. There is too much, and it is such an effort to hold the pretence of mobility, right now. Vhenan leads them out of sight of most of the strange elves, before declaring that they should stop. Uthvir sags against the thick roots of an old tree, and feels like little more than a raw nerve. Like even the blades of grass and smooth bark of the tree, pressing through the fabric of their clothes, are too much.*

*Vhenan wraps something red around them. Warm. When did she get that? They blink as something drops into their lap. It, too, is warm, and they close a hand over it as incongruous shivers wrack through their body. They should change; Vhenan stopped them for that. But they feel as though they can scarcely move, as a fresh wave of tremors overtake them, and their head swims. Their veins burn. They can feel it oddly against their lips, and the corners of their eyes. They want... they need... _something._  Poison. They need that poison. If it leaves, it will take them with it; and so they must have more.*

*Vhenan presses something to their lips, and they drink, readily. But it is only water. They grasp her wrist with their free hand, and her face swims in their vision.*

Please, Vhenan. The poison. I need more. It is too late; I need more or I will die.

Aili: *Her face falls at their assertion, and she does her best to keep her panic in check. There is a part of her that wants to give in to their pleas, to race back to the Dalish camp and trade something she bought for any lyrium they might have. But she knows better than to give in. Even in little doses, the poison would continue to gnaw at their mind until there was nothing left of them at all. And she is not willing to sacrifice one more inch of them to anyone, even themselves.*

*She moves closer slowly, in case they want to reach for her, as they have been. She wonders if it truly helps them, or if they simply want to be clinging to something. She supposes it doesn't matter, in the end.*

There is no more of it to be had, my love.

*They groan pitiably, and she presses a hand to their sweating brow, sending a cool wave of healing magic seeping into their temple, making their breaths come just the slightest bit easier. She talks them into taking one of their new health potions, but that will need a few minutes to kick in, so she wraps an arm around them and draws them near, letting them lean on her as they like.*

I am sorry for your suffering, and I'm afraid it is probably going to get worse before it gets better. But I won't let you die. I promised to protect you, remember?

*Her eyes travel to their new supplies and come to rest on their stave. An idea comes to her mind; a mage’s staff may not grant the wielder _more_ power, as lyrium would, but it makes it easier to channel it. Easier to focus. She reaches for the weapon and presses it into their hand, closing their fingers around it firmly.*

Can you feel your magic, Vhenan? It's still there. You will be able to reach for it better with time and practice. What you feel now is a lie brought on by craving. You are not lost. You are not weak. Your strength is merely sleeping, and when this sickness passes, you will have it once again. Different, perhaps, but still yours.   

Uthvir: *They close their hand around the staff, and reach for their magic. It is so far away. So quiet and tangled in the poison that is killing them, burning through them as it demands more. Like an altar hungry for sacrifices. But it helps. They hold Vhenan and they hold the staff, and while the world does not seem even close to ordinary, it is like an anchor in the storm. Like a rock to cling to, as dark waves lash at them.*

*They are soaking wet.*

*They realization comes to them gradually, after an untold length of time has passed. They are still curled against the base of the tree, dressed in the cloak and tattered leggings, and they are drenched in enough sweat that it feels as if they have been doused in oil. Vhenan is in their lap, humming. Her voice sounds near to hoarse. Their grip on the staff is so tight that their hand aches when they finally loosen it. Something else is pressed against their palm; indenting it to the point of having bitten into their skin. They shift, and Vhenan immediately brushes a patch of red fabric across their brow, and starts soothing them until she realizes that there is a degree of better lucidity to their gaze. They swallow, and find a half-empty flask brought to their lips.*

Vhenan...?

*The simple question prompts reassurances and comfort, and they feel a trill of unease - they are so _weak_  - in amidst the fiery ache in their bones. But when she asks if they can stand, they manage it. They are exhausted, and raw, but they get to their feet. Stripping off their drenched outfit, and pulling on the new clothes and light armour which they traded for. It is almost too heavy to manage, but they feel much better with something firm and solid around them. They clutch the spear like a walking stick, as Vhenan coaxes them into moving. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks wan and hollow, the air around her devoid of any light. They look down at the little trinket, still clutched in their hand. What is... it is familiar. It is a secret, they think. They made it for... it was for...*

*They look back at Vhenan, who is glaring out into the trees, and then carefully tuck the item into their pocket. They will give it to her when it is safe. _Andruil is coming,_  Fear whispers; closer through the grip on their spear, somehow. Andruil is coming, and they must keep Vhenan safe. They pluck up the flask of water, and gingerly extend it towards her. Their back feels hot; the sun must be beating down on them, despite the canopy of trees. Vhenan blinks at them, and then takes a careful drink; thanking them, but not taking much before she hands it back to them. She tells them that they have lost too much moisture, that they must 'keep hydrated'. They feel like nothing _but_  moisture, as it pours off of their brow, and settles at the base of their neck. Just shy of the burning in their back, that is growing and growing.*

*Andruil put the poison in there, they recall. _It makes everything so much prettier. Shall we see how much prettier is makes my trophies, pet?_ *

*Vhenan says something. Reaches out, and just lightly touches their shoulder, and all at once the world tilts again. They pitch forward, and barely catch themselves before they begin retching from the pain.*


	5. Fever Dreams

Aili: *She is not certain how long they sit there at the base of the tree, curled into one another, both clinging to the last piece of home they have, but it feels like a long time. An hour at the very least, but likely more. She does not like still being so near to the Dalish camp. Under any other circumstances, she would turn right around and beg for aid. For shelter. But Uthvir's sickness could easily be mistaken for Blight, and if Fear makes an appearance, the entire clan would turn on them in a heartbeat. On a normal day, well fed and well rested, not even that would concern her overmuch, she could likely take down most of their hunters without breaking a sweat. But she has slept poorly, ate and drank only what she needed to keep on her feet, and her magic has been pouring into Uthvir almost constantly for more than a day. And mentally speaking, she feels raw and worried and heartsick.*

*She is _exhausted_.*

*They need to find someplace better. Defensible and close to fresh water. If she wears herself out completely, neither of them will be safe.*    

*Uthvir finally seems to be feeling a little better, though they hardly look it, and she helps them into their new clothes and armor, careful to avoid touching their skin directly as much as she can. They look strange in the new outfit. Smaller and more slight than they had ever looked in their old gear, almost like an elf from this age. The thought chills her. That their time might be finite. That even now, their body is withering and their mind is pulling farther from her, and soon she will have nothing of them at all.*

*She swallows and turns her gaze out towards the trees, scanning for threats and glaring as she begins guiding them slowly through the forest again, hyper aware of their every movement, in case they need to stop again. She thinks she remembers a ridge of cliffs a day or so away. Perhaps there are caves they could take shelter in?*   

*They haven't gotten very far when Uthvir offers her the mostly empty canteen. She blinks at them, surprised. Does she look thirsty? Well...she probably doesn't seem particularly happy at the moment, and it was likely the only thing they could think to do to try and placate her. They must please their 'mistress', after all. She takes a drink to humor them, not wanting them to think they have done something wrong, but hands it back with an explanation that they need it far more than she does. It is...mostly true.*

*They look pale again, and sweat has begun rolling off of them with renewed vigor. Oh no.*

Uthvir? *She tries, sidling up to them, poised to try and heal them again, assessing how much more mana she can spare before she collapes.* Vhenan? Do you need to sit down again?

*She touches their shoulder and they sway, crumpling to their hands and knees and retching up water and bile and the little bit of food she'd gotten them to eat this morning.*

*She drops down beside them in an instant, pulling her pack back off and brushing their hair fruitlessly out of their face.*

Where does it hurt? Is it your head again? You have to tell me, Vhenan, I don't have much magic left.

*They don't seem capable of speech at the moment, but they moan in obvious pain and claw at their breastplate, gesturing towards their back. She fumbles to get it back off of them, rolling them to one side and pulling it away. Was it too tight? Too heavy? They still seem to be hurting though, and she carefully tugs their shirt up to see if the armor dug into someplace unexplecteldly.*

*The ruined flesh of their back is red and throbbing. They don't seem to be bleeding anywhere, but there is heat radiating off their skin in waves. She lightly places her hand between the shoulder blades, despite knowing it is one of the places they least like to be touched, and summons her healing spell once again, trying to use it sparingly in case this doesn't actually help, pulling a touch of ice into the palms of her hands to soothe their fevered skin.*

 Uthvir: *They feel magic, soothing, cooling, but as the touch of their lady (Vhenan) lands so close their back, a rush of fear crashes into them. Their hands tighten around the staff, and they feel a _pull_  through the strange, heavy, deadened air around them. And then all it once, it is like something sinks into them. Into the last burning embers of poison in their veins, and through the ruined wards bound into their back, and the spear clutches in their grip. Their skin bursts into a rictus of like. Webbed, pulsing red veins that fill their vision with the same colour, and spill from their eyes. Crackle over their knuckles, and ignite the wounds on their back.*

*They are Fear. They are Nightmares. The rush of their magic sends Vhenan stumbling backwards, gasping as they stand up, and all of their impulses are pain and the need to get away from it. They cannot die; they cannot. They scream, and take off into the woods. Fleeing shadowy hounds that nip at their heels, their blood thundering in their ears, the air whipping furiously around them. They run, and run, and run. Run from the dangers. Run from the poison, that is still trying to claw out their bones. Everything is red and their heart is beating so fast it feels fit to tear itself from their chest, as they go crashing forward until they hit water. The surface steaming around them, as they at last stagger to a halt. To the sounds of a voice, distantly, calling for them. Trying to pierce the haze. Far away and desperate. _Vhenan._ *

*They stand in the waters, and Fear thinks to itself that if it breaks this body, it can be free. Andruil will not hold its leash anymore. It will not matter when she awakens; Uthvir will be gone, at last, but the Nightmare will remain. It would not be death for itself; but the body rebels fiercely at the thought. _Cannot die. No, no, **no.**_  It is a struggle, to try and overcome the surge of survival instinct. Fear does not wish to be rid of this form, not really; but it is weak, now, and the Veil is falling. The huntress will return, and she is not Vhenan. She is not kind. She is the Nightmare's own fear, and even that is only secondary to what else will be unleashed with her.*

*They do not realize they are gripping their gift to Vhenan at first. Not until they feel something pull at them. That internal tether; that chord of connection. Vhenan is looking for them. They stare down at the small totem. Will their fear for her go away, if the body does? Will they stop caring? Will it stop hurting, that they lost her? But it never really did. Even when they were just the Nightmare, and Uthvir was sleeping. It hurt, to think of her dying. And she surely will, in all the machinations of leaders and wolves, even if she _has_  managed to make it this far. These are not plans for survival. They are desperate acts of mad gods.*

*They are still staring at the totem, when they hear footsteps. Staggering. They turn, and through the filmy haze of red, they see Vhenan break through the trees towards them and stumble. A foot catching on a rock. Exhaustion claiming her reserves at last, as she hits the ground, breathless and gasping and spent. Words slip by her. Denials, pleas; their heart who has survived all this time. As they managed to. Even when they both thought one another dead.*

*Fear turns and heads back towards her, and lifts her into their burning arms. Light. She is so light, and small, and deceptive in all of that. They hold her close, and begin to carry her. Down the river, on and on, until the red begins to fade, and they find a hollowed-out tree that is big enough to shield her. Then they settle her inside, and tuck the totem into her hand.*

*They cannot sleep. They cannot sleep, or she will die. Or they will die. So they sit, outside of the hollow tree, until at last all the red is gone from their gaze. Their veins grow quiet, but their skin still burns. Feverish, they stare out across the dark river, until they hear the sound of wolves howling in the distance.*

*Then Vhenan wakes with a gasp.*

Aili: *There is a flare of magic, a flash of red across her vision, blinding, as she topples away from Uthvir. They rise to their feet, and they look like something within them is trying to break from their very skin, glowing crimson eyes and veins and even the inside of their mouth looks as though they've swallowed something molten as they pause for a moment to scream in mingled pain an terror before they turn and begin tearing away from her through the trees.*

*She scrambles to rise and chase after them, calling their name all the while, but they outstrip her in a matter of minutes. They are gone. Gone, gone, _gone_. And for half a moment she simply stands there, staring out into the forest, one hand raised to tangle in her hair as she fights the urge to dissolve into blind gibbering panic.*

*Then, she takes a deep steadying breath, and circles back around for their supplies. If Uthvir isn't thinking clearly, they could run into all sorts of trouble, and as tired as she is, she likely won't have the strength to heal them. She hurriedly jams as much of their supplies as she can into her own bag, knowing that trying to haul two of them would slow her down too much, and after a moment more of hesitation, she straps their breastplate on over her own armor. Uncomfortable and heavy, but the easiest way to carry it she can think of.*

*And then it is a matter of tracking. Luckily, they don't seem to have been too focused on hiding their movements, and there is a clear trace of them through the underbrush. ...for a while. But then the daylight begins to fade, and the long shadows of twilight seem to blend their footprints with the other tracks of animals. Her eyes are just as tired as the rest of her, and her pack is heavy, and no matter how many times she calls for them, Uthvir does not answer. Her body is not heeding her commands as well as she would wish. Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Why can't she do more?*

 _Uthvir!_ *Her voice is rough and scraping, and without even being completely conscious of it, she reaches for them. For that trembling chord of their bond which has miraculously survived as long as both of them, despite time and distance various instances of near-death. She lets out a sob of open relief when she feels them. Alive then; they are still alive, which means she can still help them. She tugs at the connection, staggering towards it in the dark, trying to move swiftly in spite of her exhaustion.*

*She breaks through a line of trees and stumbles, hitting the ground hard. They should be here though, she thinks. Are they here? She can feel them even though she finds she cannot get back to her feet. Their chest piece is too heavy for her, it's hard to breathe. To speak coherently. To move. She thinks she might be babbling, pleading perhaps, as something moves in her direction.*

 _Please, don't leave me_.

*And then the world melts into darkness.*

*For a long time she simply drifts. The quiet simple blackness of unconsciousness, soft and cool and infinite. A dwarf's dream. She thinks she was meant to be looking for something, but she can't be sure. It would not be here though, she reasons. The one she wants does not like to sleep unless she holds them. Or they hold her. Was someone holding her? She can't remember.*

*Slowly though, the shadows form into a forest. And, yes, she thinks, she was looking for someone here. Or...she found something? Once, a long time ago. A fragment of her heart. But the Dreaming is so different now, and nothing looks right. She can't find the old pathways. She can't find anyone.*

*Something moves between the shadows of the trees. Large and black. Lupine. For half a moment, it turns its head to gaze at her with cold burning eyes. A wolf howls somewhere in the distance, and terror floods her heart. _Not yet. You can't be looking for me yet. It hasn't been that long.*_

*She rips herself away from the Fade with a gasp, finding herself tucked somewhere small and cramped and dark. She scrambles to free herself, heartbeat hammering in her ears. A tree? She is still wearing Uthvir's armor, and it has made a fair few of her muscles sore. And there is something in her hand?*

*She lets out another startled breath as she gazes down at her pendant. How...? But then she catches sight of a figure sitting by a river. Uthvir. She was looking for Uthvir, and somehow they seem to have found her instead.*

 *She staggers to their side, sinking to her knees and wrapping her arms around their neck, pressing her face into their skin and breathing deep. She is still so tired, but they are here, and they don't seem to be any worse for wear, and she finds herself sobbing raggedly into the soft red fabric still wound around their throat.*

I'm sorry. I knew my hand was probably too close to your scars, but that seemed to be the place that was hurting you. I'm so sorry, I swear I won't do it again. Just please, don't run off like that. I don't want to lose you again. *She moves her hands up to their face, turning it slightly as though inspecting them, tears still sliding down her cheeks* Are you alright? Did you get hurt? Here, let me-

*She calls for her magic and it sputters and dies in her palm with barely a flicker. She curses and makes a move to go find her pack. With any luck, some of the elfroot potions will have survived her banging through the woods and crashing onto the ground.*

Uthvir: *They scarcely noticed Vhenan's proximity until she is touching them. Whispering apologies that they do not recall the cause for, as she begs them not to flee again, and then begins rummaging in a nearby pack. She is dressed oddly. Too much; too many sharp angles for her. They watch her wince as she pulls herself free from the layers of their armour, quiet as she lays it down beside them, and looks into their eyes. Her lips tremble, before she turns away and begins rummaging through the pack. They shift their gaze out towards the darkness, as she pulls free a tiny vial of something. Not poison. They wish it was, as she presses it to their lips and bids them drink.*

*Another wolf's howl breaks the night, and she nearly drops the vial. They lift sluggish, fevered fingers up to help hold it, and drink. There is no emotion in the air; not really. But they think they can feel tension. Fear. Not the spirit, but the emotion, tangling up in the lines between them. Vhenan brushes her fingers across their cheek, and then begins drawing them back towards the hollowed tree. She does not go inside of it again, but she spreads a bedroll out near the shadow of it, and begins lighting a fire. They do not think they want the heat. They are so warm, but she tells them that they are 'ice cold'. The tremor in their limbs lends some credence to that. Her gaze drifts towards the south, where the wolf calls came from; and they feel disquiet from her, and anger. A sharp, brittle spark that makes them still in reflexive worry.*

*Appeasement. They should appease her. _Vhenan does not require that, she is not that one._  No. Reassure...? Something. They must do something, they think, as the fire sparks, and Vhenan moves to touch them again. They press into her hand, and wind an arm around her waist. They are hot but she feels as if she must be burning, by comparison. Heat. They know heat. They tilt their head, and press their lips to hers. Swallowing her gasp as they pull her exhausted frame to them, and slip their tongue between her lips. Kissing her until the hard spark of her anger has muted, and she gently pushes them back. So tired. She is so tired, and they are burning, and there is no safe place to retreat to. They slip a hand down to her belt, and pull her onto the bedroll with them. A memory sparks. Laughter in their ear. _I can’t believe for once, I’m actually wearing more than you are!_  Bright warmth in their lap; amusement, as passion eases into the realization that they are dressed only in their underthings, and Vhenan is still mostly clothed, even with her pants halfway down her thighs.*

*Vhenan. Vhenan...*

Aili.

*The name escapes them, a whispered breath of triumph. They clutch her close, as their head begins to swim again. As if the world is tilting; as if Fear succeeded in drowning them.*

Vhenan. Do you remember, when She went to her wife for six months? I remember. You found a beehive. Made honey tarts for me. I never had them before.

Aili: *Her mind lingers on the Wolf. Is he looking for her in earnest? Is he waiting for her to report back, even though she has truly found nothing that would aid him? She has left him, but she has not joined the forces opposing him. Would he claim her life regardless, just to ensure she does not betray him?*

*Bitterness seeps into her as she thinks of it, as she remembers Felassan, who only refused to give him the password to part of the fractured Eluvian network. She was never an overly important agent. She is a scout. She is a spy. No one hands delicate information to someone who could easily be captured by another warring faction. All she wants is a sliver of liberty. The right to say ‘no’. He said he would free them, but it has been thousands of years, and she has yet to feel free.*   

*Her thoughts on that subject come to a screeching halt when they kiss her, however. And this is a proper kiss. An Uthvir kiss. Lips and tongue and wanting. Her wants or theirs? _Both_ , a thought whispers as they wind an arm around her more firmly. And oh, what she wouldn't give to continue. To keep kissing them until there is nothing else in the world but the feel of them against her.*

*But they are sick, and she is still fairly worn out.*

*She presses them down gently onto the bedroll. Even if they don't sleep, they should try to rest. They feel cold and clammy, and she needs to find wherever her cloak has gotten to so they can have a blanket and-*

*Their fingers catch in her belt, tugging her back to them.*

*She is about to gently protest, when Uthvir says her name.*

*And her heart stops in her chest.*

*She's almost too afraid to breathe, but then they continue half a moment later, recalling softer, happier times. _Do you remember?_  The air escapes her lungs in the form of laughter, startling, and somewhat shaky.*

See, _you_ remember the honey tarts, while I remember nearly falling out of the tree trying to reach the beehive. I was caught upside-down by my trousers for almost a half an hour when you found me dangling there like some sort of strange fruit covered in bee stings. I don't know if I've ever seen you laugh so hard at anything in my life.

*She angles her head to press a kiss to their cheek before curling further into them with a sigh.*

I have a confession to make, though. I'm afraid I didn't actually bake the tarts myself. I gathered the ingredients and then the cooks helped me. I thought, since you had never gotten the chance to try them before, you might prefer it if they were actually somewhat edible.   

Uthvir: *They drift, listening to the soft cadence of her voice. They remember finding her in that tree. And the tarts. Furious bees and flaky pastry, and yes, they were very edible. And sweet. They licked the honey from the corner of her mouth, they recall. Their lips drift there again, as she sags against them. Kissing their way back into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. Not quite so sweet right now. They should find some honey, they think, blearily. They hold her to their chest as the fog swims in their head, and listen to her reminisce until they begin to sink into unconsciousness.*

*They are not certain they want to go. Their grip on her tightens, for an instant. But it is impossible to resist, and before long, they are sinking. Slipping. Falling away, into the Dreaming once more. Behind the Wolf's veil.*

*Most of the dream is disjointed and exhausted. But after a time, they are giving to impression of something seeking, hunting. They are not the hunter, however. There is a wolf stalking their heart. Fear knows it. They shy away, drawing their heart with them. A maelstrom of shadows and spindly legs and dark, disquieting things come at their call and turn their trail treacherous. Aili wraps her arms around them. Trying to shield them, and they spare a moment to try and comfort her over the shapes they have called. But they do not seem to be what is alarming her. She shakes their arms, trying to get their attention. Trying to get them to let her go. Does she not know the danger? They speak, even though their voice echoes, here; as disjointed as their thoughts and impressions have become.*

There is someone-

*Their words cut off as the lesser minions that are disguising their pathway burn, and die in a terrifying flash of power. The Wolf. When did he get so strong? Fear does not know, and it quails. It should not be. Corypheus had his orb, and it broke, and this is much too much power. This monster is coming for their heart.*

Aili: *She does not want to sleep, does not want to slip into the Dreaming, but she feels like a candle sputtering in a strong wind. Uthvir's arms are around her, their heartbeat sounding in her ear, as well as their deep even breathing. The smell of them. The quiet thrum of their bond. It sooths her against her will, and before long, she feels her consciousness flickering out.*

*The Wolf is waiting.*

*She feels his eyes on her almost as soon as the Fade claims her, but Uthvir is here. Uthvir who is also Fear, dark and disjointed and clinging to her, somehow sensing that something is wrong. They shape the dream, summon dozens of shadowy little minions and try to pull her away. To protect her. But Fen'harel will at least speak to her, give her a chance to reason and persuade and bargain for her life. She is not certain he would offer the same leniency to her heart.*

*She tries to cover them somehow, and when she realizes the folly in that, she tries to send them away, but they will not be sent. She is not sure what dying here would do to them, or to her, for that matter. Before the Veil, an elf who died in the Dreaming was just that: dead. But now these modern countries use the distance between waking and sleep to mutilate their mages. To sever them from their spirits and leave them devoid of all feeling. Is that what became of Felassan, in truth? Is that to be her fate, now?*

*The path behind them burns, strange black creatures sent screaming and racing from the light. And then he is there. The great black wolf, eyes gleaming like a set of coals, studying her as though she is merely a curiosity. An ant who has wandered into his path unexpectedly, and he has not made up his mind whether or not he is going to crush her.*

*She trembles in Uthvir's arms, but she pries herself away from them, though it takes a bit of doing. They are afraid. They can sense the new power he has acquired, and they must be even less certain of his intent than she is. But she isn't about to let them get killed just to avoid a conversation. She isn't going to let them get killed _at all_. She promised.*

Don't hurt them. *She wishes she sounded a little less terrified. She will fight him if she has to, but she knows he could end her with a blink of an eye. Still. She takes a deep steadying breath and steps directly between the Wolf and her heart.* You...you came here for me, because I didn't report back. Well...I only came across one ruin, and there was only dust and darkness and them. They were tortured and bound and confused. They only sent those spirits after you to protect me. They are no more a threat to you than I am. Please, don't hurt them.

*There is no lie in what she said, but she still gets the impression that he does not believe everything she claims. The Dread Wolf has a good nose for half-truths. Her hand twitches for her blade reflexively. If he makes a move for her, perhaps she can distract him long enough for Uthvir to get away.*

Solas: Bound? The Nightmare was quite free when last I saw it. But this is... hmm. A physical form. Andruil's pet?

*The comment does not seem to meet with Aili's approval, though the Nightmare barely flinches at the assertion. The twisted creature has the look of something beyond saving. Something already coming apart, bit by bit; no matter how fiercely it might try to preserve itself. No matter how gallant its champion. _Like this world,_  he thinks. And he sighs, internally, at the parallel of pictures the scene before him paints. One of the bravest, kindest of his followers, a tiny elven woman, poised to defy him for the sake of this dying ember. An ancient elf, defending some last bit of salvage from their world.*

*He feels his exhaustion settling in, along with the cold detachment needed to analyse the scenario. He does not want to deal with this. He does not want to strike a blow against another of his people.*

Can you keep the beast contained?

Aili: *She blinks in disbelief, stunned into momentary silence. It...couldn't really be as simple as that, could it? He wouldn't have tracked her all this way just to nod his head at them and give her his blessing. She glances back at Uthvir, at the dark and shifting shape of them.  _Can_ she keep them under control? They have not tried to attack anyone, and bits of their memories seem to be coming back. But the lyrium withdrawal is torturous, and it is impossible to say for certain what the future may hold. She swallows thickly.*

I will keep them...safe. *She amends hesitantly, still trying to read the intent of the figure before her. For a moment she thinks his eyes betray sorrow, sorrow and a great weariness, but it is gone too quickly to be sure.* Safe from everything...including themselves. Uthvir is not a beast. They are... *Her words falter, cheeks darkening and eyes darting away for a moment before turning back to him, raising her chin slightly, defiant.* They are my heart, and I will keep them safe. Safe...and with me.    

Solas: This is not a time for love. I am sorry, for the both of you. *Hearts, indeed. He looks at the beast, and wonders which of them is seeing the truth more clearly - if she is more blinded by love, or if he has truly lost too much to cynicism. What a fool's errand, to fall in love _now_ , of all times. To find it again. He had never heard of Andruil's pet as anything more than a killer and abomination. A fear-maddened beast. But then, so many of them became so many awful things. Perhaps Uthvir was something else, before.*

*Perhaps there may still be some use for Andruil's favoured toy, in the darkness to come. Or perhaps not. Still, he supposes, he does not have to kill them today.*

Do not cross my path again, and do not interfere with my plans. The Veil will fall. I suggest you make use of the time you have left.

Aili: It has never been the right time for love. Not in Elvhenan, and not here. I am starting to believe that the only right time for it is the time we make ourselves. The world is dying. Our people are dying. If none of us who understand this can find the time to spare for something like love... Well, perhaps we are not worth saving, after all.

*She shrugs noncommittally before moving closer to Uthvir, who snatches her back into their arms, limbs trembling.*

I have no intention of joining the opposition, if that is your concern. I'm fairly certain they would not welcome Uthvir in their present...condition. And, as I said, I will not leave them. My heart gave me the tools to build my future, and our bond saved me when I should have died. And...it brought me back to them again. Our love has endured the fall of kings and gods and empires. And the severing of the dreaming. And the relentless march of time. I have to believe that our love can endure this as well. Or else, it was all for nothing, and I refuse to accept such a wretched fate.

*She turns back to Uthvir, pulling them both away from the dream. The Wolf is no longer holding it. He sits there, watching, expression as inscrutable as ever.*   

...Goodbye, Pride. I hope you find the wisdom you were seeking. And that it leads you to a path that gives you peace.  


	6. New Beginnings

Uthvir: *It is Vhenan - it is Aili - who directs them out of the Dreaming. Into mists and strange between spaces, and then back to the world. They wake with cold air on their tongue, and a hot flush to their skin; and thrumming beneath it. Strong, and bright, like they can almost remember it being. An ember that has been stoked back into a fury of flames. They open their eyes to the softly crackling campfire, and the shifting of Vhenan in their arms. And they listen, as she draws a breath, and tightens her grip on them. Holding them close, as they hold her back.*

*Her heart is thumping. They can feel it, in more ways than one. Even through the muddying of the Veil, and the fog of their withdrawal. They take in a few more breaths, before burying their face against her hair. _I have to believe that our love can endure this as well. Or else, it was all for nothing, and I refuse to accept such a wretched fate._ Wretched fate. No, they will not let it be for nothing. Their perception is still foggy, jagged in places, but the bright bond between them helps to chase the worst clouds away, and they are filled with resolve. They will live. Both of them. It is what they do; and now they are together, and they will not easily be parted again.*

I love you.

*They whisper the words, as Aili at last looks up. And then they lean in, and kiss her again.*

*Vhenan.*

Aili: *She wakes, but does not know if she wants to get up just yet. She hasn't been hiding her feelings, precisely, but that was a somewhat...blatant declaration. She is nearly overwhelmed with the relief of their escape, heart hammering in her ears, and facing the reality of their confusion again right now; the cringing and the deference and the half remembered fragments of their former happiness...is difficult. It's easier just to hold them, to sink into the familiar warmth blooming between them and focus on the fact that it is noticeably brighter, thrumming like a steadfast heart. Perhaps still not as strong as it had been in days past, but clearly growing. Binding them back to one another link by gleaming link.*

*Their grip tightens on her, pressing their face into her hair, and she gives them a moment before looking up to see if they need something.*

*Instead, they tell her that they love her, and before she even has a chance to fully process that nugget of information, they pull her up into another kiss.* 

*She melts into them with a sigh, tremulous and just a little bit disbelieving. They _love_ her. They love _her_. The light between them pluses with the rush of her affection. She kisses them back, soft and nibbling and gentle as can be, moving her hands to cup their face. When she pulls away it is with a quiet hum and a small curling smile, running her thumbs across their cheeks. Then she pulls their left arm loose from their embrace and guides their wrist to her mouth, pressing her lips to it for a long lingering moment. She can feel it when their heart skips, and her eyes flick back up to theirs, shinning and intent as her smile grows wide and knowing.*

Oh, how the sun loved the moon.    

*She seems content to simply stare at them for a moment before leading the hand in her grasp down her side and slightly up under her shirt so they can feel the deep groove of the scar in her abdomen above her right hip.*

You always seemed to think that your love would ruin me somehow... But it saved me. You saved me. The remnant of Glory defended me so I could escape. And if you hadn't gotten me that position tending halla for Andruil, I probably would have still been in Arlathan when...

*She falters for a moment before leaning back into them to press a kiss to their cheek.*

Falling in love with you is the only reason I'm still here right now. ...You're my hero.

Uthvir: *Hero? They saved her? They are not certain what to make of such claims. But they will accept that they helped her live; helped her survive. That is what they wanted, in the end. What they will keep doing. They run their fingers carefully across the scar above her right hip. And then they pull her back into their arms. They feel leaden, and bright, and exhausted, and exhilarated. They want to make love to her; they want to secret her away. They want to find some place - any place - and just live. Just keep living, throughout it all. With her.*

You are mine. My love. My hero. I cannot believe you never forgot me. I would still be in literal pieces without you. But I think you would have joined the rebellion, one way or another. I knew you had a spark in you. It is so bright, my love. So bright. You are the sun, most undoubtedly.

*They sigh, and lean back as she presses yet more kisses to them. They must keep her safe. And she will keep them safe. They have found one another again. The tide bursts, as they hold her to them. Waiting for the actual sun to rise, and pale in comparison. Then they will probably have to move. Probably have to carry on with surviving. She soothes their trembling skin with her touches, and they soak in the steadying thrum of their renewing bond.*

I love you, I love you. I do.

Aili: *They lay together until morning, holding each other and whispering adorations. If they weren't both so physically wrung-out she might try for something a little more, but for now, it is enough. More than enough.*

*They greet the day slowly, neither one willing to relinquish the pleasure of touching the other for more than a few minutes at a time. Uthvir is still flushed and sluggish, but for now, they appear to be feeling much better. Aili manages to get a few fish out of the river, so they get to have something close to a decent meal, which seems to improve both of them. When they finish, she leans into them, humming in contentment and looping her arm through theirs. Taking them by the hand and threading their fingers together, grinning at the little happy thrum of their connection trembling up her arm at the contact.*

Where shall we go? The mountains? The sea? A different forest? We can even try the desert, if you like, though it wouldn't be my first choice. We probably shouldn't stay in any one location too terribly long, but it isn't as though either of us had aspirations of being farmers or something anyway. 

*She glances up at their face briefly, at the blood red lines of their vallaslin.*

You...don't have to wear those now, you know. The markings. You don't belong to her anymore. You don't have to belong to anyone except yourself. ...though I may beg you for a loan of certain bits every now and then. But naturally, you are free to refuse.

*She raises their hand and kisses it. Then she pauses, expression shifting into something more pensive.*

I used to try and imagine what it would be like, to share my life with you. To openly claim you as my heart. ...it...never quite went like this, though. *She drops her head onto their shoulder with a sigh.* ...I wanted to marry you, you know. 

Uthvir: *They listen to the rise and fall of Vhenan's voice, as she muses on the places they could go, the things they could do. Still running and hiding in the end, though. If not from the Wolf, then surely from the others, once they awaken. But Fear is accustomed to hiding, and they are beginning to think that running was a better prospect than they ever gave it credit for. And surviving with her must be worth something more than surviving alone.*

*They listen as her voice drops, and she speaks softly of vallaslin. Of marriage. They stay silent, still exhausted and wrung-out. Still burning in withdrawal, but not enough that it drowns out the importance of her meaning. Sunlight falls through the trees around them, and lands in little shafts and pools; broken up by the rustling of leaves overhead. The campfire has burned itself cold, even beyond embers. Distantly, they can hear the river. They can hear birds, and small animals in the brush.*

*Nothing ever lasts forever. Not even immortality did, as it happened. They suppose it is like the world is speeding up; and the slow days of before are gone, and now it is a race, to see who will make it through to whatever comes next. They close their eyes, and curl a hand around Aili's cheek.*

I already married you, in my heart. I could not give you a wedding. I could not give you that life, not openly. I am so sorry. But I am yours. I was yours, defiantly, for so long. I think that is why I became so confused. It is a different kind of ownership, but... the line blurred. I knew only that I belonged to you. I forgot what that was supposed to mean between us.

*They sigh, and lean back, and draw in a long breath again. Their lungs ache. Everything does.*

We should find places where the Veil is already thin. If the Wolf means to reverse his act, they will be the least changed when that happens. The spirits in such areas will be more familiar with the Waking world, and the Waking world, in turn, more accustomed to magic. The backlash should be lesser there.

*They wonder if any of Andruil's boltholes yet remain. Or Falon'Din's, for that matter. They wonder how many elves survived either evanuris, and knew of such secret locations.*

I think I should see a map, too. Has the terrain changed much?

Aili: *She grins at them despite herself. They sound so much more like they used to, it's hard not to feel a bit giddy over it. She's not certain if it is their bond with Fear, or them slowly winning out against the tide of their withdrawal, but she'll take it. Gladly. She presses another kiss to their hand.*

Finding places where the Veil is thin won't be all that hard. Just keep an eye out for battlefields and ruins, places that have seen a lot of death tend to draw more attention from spirits trapped on the other side. Although, a few such places are shelters for Fen'Harel's agents, and he may press to take more as time passes, so we'll have to be careful of that.

*She heaves a sigh.* 

Finding a map however...might be a bit more difficult. They are expensive and hard to come by nowadays. If we did have the coin, which we don't, our best bet would be a city. And cities are run by humans, humans who frequently go out of their way to make life miserable for elves. And elves with Vallaslin tend to arouse more vitriol and general suspicion than those that are bare faced. The elves in the cities and towns might be more willing to help us, possibly even more so than the Dalish clan we just met, but they are poor and have little enough to call their own. ...I always feel bad taking anything from them. They make my days of living in the Arlathan slums seem like luxury. At least I was always fed. And there were never any holes in my roof. Same number of rodents though, so I suppose some things never change.

*She flashes them a half-hearted smirk, shrugging.*

Never fear, though! Your wily fox has traversed her fair share of the countryside by now. I'm no cartographer, but I can at least bring you up to date with the major changes in the terrain, and the divisions of new countries. 

*She goes over to the burnt out fire, smoothing out a section of the ashes to use as her canvas. She was never the most proficient artist, but she's pretty sure most of the shapes she's making look more or less like the places they are meant to represent. She works quietly until she hears them shuffle up behind her to watch. She smiles softly, but doesn't turn her gaze from the task at hand.*

...I never blamed you, you know. For the things we couldn't have together. It wasn't even so much about having a wedding as it was about giving you a real family. People who would have looked out for you without bribes or favors. They would have loved you, too. As I do. I know you and my mother had some... misunderstandings, but she always assumed you were using me...and it was never safe to tell her otherwise. I would have liked to fix that. 

*She shoots them a glance, smile widening.*

You're right, though. I _do_ feel like I married you already. After all, in the end, it is really just a promise to take care of the other person, to cherish and protect them. And we've made dozens of such vows. So...I suppose that makes you my family now...Spouse.

*She turns her head just in time to catch the soft expression on their face before it can melt into either a smirk or confusion, and she leans back over to them to kiss it off their face. Keeping it for her own.*

*They spend the rest of the morning solidifying plans and comparing notes on the different places they could wander to for refuge. Uthvir pulling up scraps of old memories where Andruil and Falon’Din may have left treasures and safe houses, and Aili parsing out if they would still be able to reach them in today’s world state. One of Andruil’s is closer, as they are in her old territory, and it may not be available to them later, given how quickly the Dread Wolf seemed to find them here. But still, it is a first step.*

*After they’ve packed up their meager camp and are about to set out, she glances over at her lover, her family, her heart, and they still seem pale. Struggling. And she knows that even if the pain in their body eventually passes, the damage done to their memories is likely irreparable. This journey will not be easy. For either of them. But however much time this world has left in it, they will cling to every second, and to each other. They will survive it, if there is any possible way to, and build a life by whatever means they have in the days that come after. It may not be perfect, but it will be theirs.*

*She made a promise, after all.*

*Smiling, she reaches over and takes their hand in her own.*

Let’s get going. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this one seems a little short, but we've reached the end of this AU! (for now) BUT WEEP NOT! If you love this version of Aili/Uthvir and the dynamics of their relationship in this AU, and you follow either me or Fey on Tumblr, keep an eye out! We've got plans. ;)


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